


Assistants

by benevolentmonolithicc



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archival Assistant Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Archivist Sasha James, Banter, Betaed, Canon Asexual Character, Canon is just a suggestion if you think about it, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Canonical Character Death, Dancing, Drunken Flirting, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Heist, Humor, Illustrated, Light Angst, M/M, Monster of the Week, POV Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fluff, Roommates, Shit this is just X-Files isn't it, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, The Mechanisms Were Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist's College | University Band, The timeline is what I want it to be, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, jonmartin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27429289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benevolentmonolithicc/pseuds/benevolentmonolithicc
Summary: “Well you’re my partner, aren’t you? We’re working this together.”There was an earnestness in Martin’s voice that made a small part of Jon very happy. He told that piece of himself to shut up and told Martin, “We’re not partners."
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 93
Kudos: 198





	1. When One Door Closes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening: _Wobbly_ by Ezra Furman  
> For: Michael Distortion vibes
> 
> CW//
> 
> Trauma from the Distortion  
> Cigarettes

It was a beautiful day, and Jon was pissed. 

“They’re screwing with us, right?” Jon set the case file he’d been reading down on the dashboard of Martin’s car and gave it a look of disgust. The pair were driving down an idyllic suburban road chasing another imaginary monster from another crackpot or junkie or liar that Sasha and Tim wholeheartedly believed. Just like always. 

And just like always Jon and Martin were crammed into Martin’s beat-up old Chevy, croaking and spluttering its way along. It was a wonder the thing could even drive, and the second Jon slammed the papers on the dash, the car let out a worrying creak that made Martin wince. Why Sasha had decided the best way to research cases was sending the assistants out in teams of two–and why those two always ended up being Jon and Martin–was beyond him. Jon thought that was a cruel joke. He wasn't sure what Martin thought, though from the way he blushed and stammered you'd think he thought the whole thing was some elaborate ploy to get the two of them together. 

And besides, it was safer this way as Sasha insisted, though that did nothing to detract from Jon being pissed at the whole situation.

“What?” Martin peeled his eyes from the road for a moment to look at Jon. He hated driving. It made him anxious. And the car’s constant threats to fall apart at the slightest provocation certainly didn’t help that.

“Tim and Sasha?” Jon gestured to the case file with contempt. “There's no reason for us to go on this investigation together.” Jon had yet to make peace with the new arrangement. It was not that he didn’t like Martin, he was nice enough certainly, and offered kind eyes and easy smiles freely, like they were nothing, like they didn’t cost a thing to give. Jon didn’t want them. They made it hard to think, hard to do his job, hard to do much of anything. So no, Jon didn’t dislike Martin. It was just his presence that annoyed him. Which sounded mean, all told, but so did most of the things that Jon said, and he didn’t even intend for them to most of the time.

“You don’t know that,” said Martin. For his part, he seemed to quite like spending time with Jon, even if Jon didn’t feel the same way. Both of them spent far too much time in the Archives, and as a result, they tended to see each other a lot. Jon said it bothered him, but he still took the tea Martin offered him all the same, and sometimes he'd even thank Martin and talk with him about nothing for a minute or two. 

“Martin, the file is literally labeled ‘spooky doors.’” Jon tapped the file with a thin, judgmental finger.

“Oh.” Martin gave the file a curious glance. “Well, I mean maybe they just wanted us out of the Archives.”

“What, because we’re turning into hermits or something?” 

Martin was blushing now, and he wouldn’t meet Jon’s eye. “...something like that.” 

The wheels in Jon's head turned slowly and arduously. He gaped at Martin with wide eyes. “Wait, you’re saying maybe—” 

“Yeah.”

Jon was blushing too now. “Oh! I didn't realize they...”

“I'm not sure but I think so?”

“Right. It makes sense why they'd want the Archives to themselves then.” The newfound silence of the car was only broken by the ticking of the turn signal. There was a beat. 

“Are we close?” Jon asked. 

Martin sighed a breath of relief that he wasn't the one who’d spoken first. “We’re getting there.” He tapped the steering wheel as he glanced around the neighborhood. “Though I’m not entirely sure what we’re looking for.” 

“If I’m not mistaken,” said Jon, “A house with a ‘For Sale’ sign in the yard.” 

Martin glanced at the rows of near-identical suburban two stories—about half of which had ‘For Sale’ signs in place of the row-standard plastic flamingos—and sighed. “That doesn't really narrow it down.” 

Jon glared at him, indignant. “Well, it’s hardly my fault Tim’s handwriting is so hard to decipher.” 

“Who are we meeting?” asked Martin, cutting him off. 

“Some real estate agent,” Jon grumbled. “A ‘Helen Richardson.’” 

“I think I see her over there, actually.” Martin gestured to a house, the same in every way to those around it, save for a tired-looking black woman sitting on the stoop, a cigarette abandoned to smolder silently in her hand. Helen Richardson had the appearance of someone who’d lost too much weight too quickly, and the smell of someone who’d just started smoking. Her face was gaunt, and her mind a million miles away. She didn’t even look up as Jon and Martin approached her.

“Police, Institute, or my 3:15?” Her voice was flat and her eyes were dull.

“Institute.” Jon shifted his hold on the file in his arms absentmindedly. “Can we come in?” 

Helen shook her head and laughed. “And go through the door?” She looked tired. So very, very tired. “Did you read my statement?”

“Right.” Jon sat on the pavement awkwardly, and Martin followed suit, equally awkwardly. “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just been hard. This whole…” She gestured wildly with her hands, trailing ash as she did so. “Everything. Do you know how hard it is being a real estate agent who’s afraid of doors? Or just being afraid of doors at all? I’ve been living out of my car for weeks now.” 

Martin looked at her, concerned. “Are you alright, Ms. Richardson?”

“Alright? Do I looking fucking alright?” Helen demanded. She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. “Sorry, that was...that was uncalled for. I haven’t been getting much sleep, or any good sleep at least. I just can’t stop thinking about that awful place. Those hallways and that _man_.”

Jon wanted to say something to her. Something comforting. Something that would make her life easier, make the look in her eyes soften, make the hedge in her breath lessen, at least just a bit. But he didn't. Instead, he opened the file in his hands and scanned it for a moment. “The man from your report?” asked Jon, finger resting on a nearly illegible name. "This 'Michael?'”

“Something like that, yeah.” They were silent for a moment, letting the name just hang in the air like haze or the smoke from Helen Richardson’s long-deserted cigarette that Jon was trying to not let himself inhale too much of. Helen stared at the two men in front of her, stiffly sitting on the concrete walk and staring at her with concern in their eyes. She took a drag from her cigarette. “Are you two here for a reason?" she asked. "I already gave my statement to that fierce-looking woman, your archivist.”

“We just need a key and an address for the house,” piped Martin from Jon's right before he could respond.

Helen's eyes widened. “Don’t go in there.”

“We kind of have to," Martin said apologetically. "It’s sort of our job.”

“Quit then. It’s not worth it.” She placed a key into Martin’s hand anyway and looked away. “It’s number eight, St. Albans Avenue. I don’t think anyone’s bought it yet.”

“Thank you.” Martin smiled gently at Helen. She didn’t return it, the gentleness or otherwise.

“You shouldn’t.” Helen stood and glanced miserably at what was left of her cigarette as if deliberating whether or not it was worth the effort of putting it out. “And I’ve got something else for you too.” She reached into her rumpled pantsuit jacket and pulled out a balled-up piece of paper. Martin rose to take it and tried not to look too confused by it. 

“What is it exactly?” he asked, failing to do so.

“It’s a map,” explained Helen, running her free hand through her hair. “Of that place I went to through the door.” Jon looked over Martin’s shoulder at the paper. He had to stand on his toes to see it properly as Martin was quite a bit taller than he was, and he had to stare at it very hard to ignore how much Martin smelled like cinnamon.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Jon noted. 

“No, it does not.” Helen took a drag from her cigarette and waved them away. “Have a nice day.”

* * *

* * *

The sun was high and the car was hot, but it had been almost two years since the air conditioning in Martin’s car had worked so Jon and Martin could do nothing but roll down the windows and sweat. Jon rolled up the sleeves of his slightly rumpled white button-up and bit his lip. There was something about Helen Richardson’s eyes that he’d found, he didn’t know, disquieting? It was their vacancy. He recognized that look. More so than he cared to admit all told. It was best not to think about it. 

As if reading his mind, Martin leaned over to him and asked him something. Jon could barely hear him over the roar of wind rushing past them. “What?” 

Sighing, Martin rolled up the windows. “So do you believe her?” he repeated as they made their way to Wimbleton. “Helen Richardson? Her story?” 

“I...I don’t know.” Jon leaned back in the dirty seat and tried to forget the familiar look on Helen Richardson’s face.

“Really?” Martin’s face lit up, and he fought in vain to keep the excitement from creeping into his voice. “You usually just dismiss these out of hand.”

Jon shrugged as nonchalantly as he was able, which was leagues more nonchalant than he felt. “She certainly seems shaken up enough. I’m not sure. It’s harder to dismiss this sort of thing when you’re talking to the person directly.” Jon furrowed his brow at the grinning Martin. “Why are you asking me anyway?”

“Well you’re my partner, aren’t you? We’re working this together.” 

There was an earnestness in Martin’s voice that made a small part of Jon very happy. He told that piece of himself to shut up and told Martin, “We’re not _partners_.”

“Colleagues then.” Martin rolled his eyes and leaned into his left armrest. He didn’t just smell like cinnamon, but like teabags too, and the peppermint hand soap that Tim had put in the Archives’ bathroom whose thick scent seeped into your skin and burrowed there. “I just wanted to know your professional opinion.” 

Jon fidgeted in his seat and looked at Martin. “Do _you_ believe her?”

“I think I do,” he said.

Jon was taken aback. “Really?” 

“Yeah.” Martin smiled at him with that easy smile. “Really. I mean, you saw her too, Jon. She was a wreck. And not like a drug wreck either,” he said wryly, fixing Jon with a grin. “Just a genuinely rattled wreck. But I’d have believed her anyway. Her statement’s not the sort of thing you just make up.”

“Hm.”

“What’s that ‘hm’ for?” 

“Nothing,” Jon said honestly, leaning back in his seat. “Just, I didn’t think you were the type to believe in this sort of thing so readily. That’s usually Sasha.”

“It’s me too, you just never ask,” snorted Martin. 

Jon was quiet. “I guess not.”

The car pulled into a long driveway, lined with expensive-looking little ground lights leading to a massive house. To say the house was imposing would be wrong. It was an ordinary house with a well-trimmed lawn and a well-worn Wolverton-Kendrick _For Sale_ sign plastered with the image of a far more amicable Helen in front of it. But that didn’t make Jon and Martin any less apprehensive. Martin put on the parking brake and stared up at the sprawling behemoth in front of them. 

It took Martin a lot of effort to tear his eyes from the house. "Are you ready to go in?" 

Jon looked up at the looming thing, all three above-ground layers of it with its spotless siding and picturesque front garden. The house looked like a normal house. But then again, so had—

Jon shook his head and looked away, pushing down thoughts of spiders and knocking and familiar eyes until he could forget them as much as anyone could forget anything on purpose until it might as well have been a dream or a lie or nothing at all for all the denial it was steeped in. 

Martin glanced back up at the house and gave it a nervous look. “Me neither. After you?”

The front door of the house did not creak open, it groaned. Far louder than it should, all told, for how new it was. And the interior was newer still. It looked like it had pulled straight from a magazine, the furniture all a little too immaculate and the floors a little too clean. Jon tried the lights a couple of times before giving up and going back to the car to fetch a torch. It was a comfortable weight in his hands, and he held it probably a little firmer than he had to. 

Jon had to hit it a few times before a flickering light came spluttering from the torch head. The beam barely made it past a couple of feet in front of them. For a brief and idiotic moment, Jon felt the urge to hold Martin’s hand like he was a little kid, to feel his warmth and the security that it brought. He grasped the torch a little tighter and shook his head slightly to clear it.

“So I take it we’re not splitting up to look for clues then,” Jon said. 

Martin gawked at him. “Was that a _Scooby-Doo_ reference?” 

Jon shot back a mischievous smile. Not as easy a smile as Martin’s were, maybe, but definitely as bright. “It might have been."

"Tim and Sasha are never going to believe me when I tell them that you made a pop culture reference," said Martin, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Especially when I deny it."

Martin looked scandalized. "Don't you dare!"

Jon didn't say anything. The torchlight flickered and for a moment, the pair was in complete and total darkness. When the light returned they were close enough that Jon could feel the body heat radiating from Martin, and for once, in the hostile cool of the empty house, he didn't mind it. "Stay close," he muttered.

“You don’t need to tell me twice.” Glancing around the room, Martin shivered. “This place is creepy.”

“It definitely isn't somewhere I'd ever move,” Jon agreed. 

Martin snorted as Jon pointed the torch up to the improbably high ceilings and they began making their way through the house. "Like either of us could afford a place like this on an institute salary."

"Not alone, maybe."

Martin gave Jon an indiscernible look. "Who are you going to move in with? Tim?"

Jon shook his head. "Tim would kill me. I'm a terrible roommate."

"Are you?" Martin asked, uselessly flicking at the switch of a floor lamp. "I can't see that. You seem like the kind of person who cleans all the time."

Now it was Jon's turn to snort. "I most assuredly am not."

"But your desk is always so spotless!"

"Because all of my papers are in my flat." The torch beam fell on an end table and its shadow climbed up the wall like a vine or a spider. Jon jerked the light away and his mind from the thought just as hastily. 

"Ah."

Jon nodded, turning the torchlight to Martin, casting his round and comforting shadow on the wall instead, making it loom over them larger than life. "And that's not to mention I'm a terrible cook."

"That doesn't detract from your quality as a roommate," said Martin, pushing closed the empty cabinet drawer, glasses glinting in the torchlight.

"Yes, it most certainly does."

"Then by that logic, I'm an excellent roommate because I'm an excellent cook."

Jon frowned. "Are you?"

"Of course. You've had my tea."

Jon let the beam of the torch fall where it may as he raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Being good at making tea and being good at cooking are two entirely different things."

"No, they aren't,” Martin argued, leaning against a wall with crossed arms as Jon inspected a framed stock photo fixed to his right. There's a correlation."

"There is no correlation."

"Yes, there is," said Martin. "It's like...an early showcase of what's to come."

Jon turned away from the photo, a family at the beach, and smiled innocently at him. "What's to come when you actually cook something?"

Martin made an exasperated face at Jon. "Aren't we supposed to be looking around at this creepy house?"

"We _are_ looking around the creepy house," Jon reminded him.

"We're distracted."

"Maybe you are," said Jon, definitely distracted and not at all looking at the creepy house. "But _I_ can multitask."

Martin raised an eyebrow at him. "Found anything then?"

"Yes." Jon pointed the torch at where the wall and ceiling met. "This house has lovely crown molding."

Martin let out a laugh. “Really?”

“It’s a part of the house that rarely gets the recognition it deserves,” snapped Jon, looking away. 

“ _Really_ _?”_ Martin laughed again. It was a wonderful sound, the kind of sound that filled you up like good hot chocolate on a cold day, and Jon felt his cheeks grow warm. He remembered why he hated working with Martin and pointed the torch at a blue loveseat with hideous pillows, focusing very hard on investigating them, on doing his job, on anything other than Martin and his annoying, distracting presence. 

“Shut up, Martin.” His cheeks were as warm as the torch bulb. 

The pair continued through the house, scanning each room and opening each door with a level of scrutiny that would have seemed quite odd to an outside observer, and not quite enough to someone who knew what lurked beyond a wrong one. It was after opening a particularly suspicious set of french doors that Martin sighed appreciatively.

“The doors are nice too, though,” he said. “If we’re pointing out the nice parts of this spooky haunted house.” 

Jon made a face at him, features and contempt exaggerated in the partial light of the torch. “The...doors?”

“Oh what, you’re allowed to admire the crown molding but I’m not allowed to admire the doors? It’s a door statement,” pointed Martin, somewhat defensively, somewhat teasingly. “I’m going to be thinking about the doors.”

“Still.” Jon poked at a fake plant pot at his foot, mostly to feel like he was being productive.

“What, too soon?” Martin smirked at him and Jon rolled his eyes.

“Well, it's not like it’s real,” he said, kicking at the plant again.

Martin’s face fell. “Are you serious right now, Jon?” 

Jon glanced around the room, almost expecting another person named Jon to be nearby and the one who was incurring Martin’s sudden wrath. “What?”

“‘What' is exactly right,” snapped Martin. “In the car, you said that you believed Helen. But now that it’s been long enough you can just go back to discounting everything just like you always do.”

“I don’t always—”

“Yes, you do always.” Martin spoke with his hands, and now their motions were sharp and accusatory. “Why are you so determined to not believe anything?”

“I do believe some things,” Jon said quietly.

“Yeah?” Martin put his hands to his hips. “Like what?”

Visions of spiders and picture books danced in Jon’s head. “I…”

“I didn’t think so.” Martin’s voice and expression were cold. He turned away from Jon and looked very intently at another framed stock photo, this time of a hillside and a curving willow, nearly split in half in its bend over a blue-grey pond. “I don’t know why I thought you’d be different this time.”

“Martin…”

Martin rounded on him. “Don’t ‘Martin’ me, Jon. This,” said Martin, gesturing at the house, “Is real. We have a job to do, and that job hinges on us believing the statement givers. I don’t know why it’s so hard for you. I mean, you read the statements the same as the rest of us. And you saw Helen Richardson. You _saw_ her, Jon. We both did. Is it really that hard to believe her? To believe me?” They were quiet for a moment.

Jon made a pained expression. “Was that a joke?”

“Was _what_ a joke?”

“‘That job _hinges?’”_ He wrung his hands, and then added lamely, “You know, like doors?”

Martin sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t intentional.” He shook his head, and when he looked at Jon, his expression was softer. Less angry and more...sad. Disappointed. “C’mon, let’s keep looking around.” Martin turned away from him.

Jon almost preferred anger. “R-right.” 

The pair kept searching the house. Martin pulled out the map Helen had drawn, and the half of it that was clean, straight lines seemed to line up exactly with the house that they walked through. And after an hour or so of searching, it seemed that it was just as it appeared. An ordinary house pulled right from a magazine that promised to never be anything more. Jon was relieved. Or he was vindicated. Or he was trying not to gloat or trying not to look at Martin or he was wishing that he could go back to doing real work by himself or he was hoping Martin would talk to him again. Or maybe was all of that at once. He wasn’t very large, but he still contained multitudes. At the very least he wanted to get out of the house, harmless or not, though it didn’t look like that was going to happen anytime soon.

Jon and Martin made their way around the second floor for the third time when Martin found it. Pulling at the sleeve of Jon’s shirt, which had long since made the slow descent down his forearm, Martin nodded at the door. “Jon, I think this is it.”

Jon gave it a doubtful look. “Are you sure?” 

“It doesn’t match the other ones.” That was true enough. The other doors in the house were your standard plain white, sometimes with a faux-brass doorknob, and sometimes a lock. But the door that they stood in front of now was a dark, sickly yellow with a matte black handle that was curled at the end. Even if it hadn’t utterly clashed with the rest of the house, it had a weight to it, a presence. It made Jon's breath hitch. 

He grabbed Martin's outstretched hand and pulled it back. “Martin, don’t touch it.” 

Martin looked almost amused. “I thought you didn’t believe in this.”

“And I thought you said we should believe Helen Richardson.” Jon gave the door a nervous glance. No matter what he told himself, there were some things you just didn’t risk. Colleagues were one of those things. Martin was getting closer to the thing, and it didn’t even look like he noticed. Jon’s eyes kept getting drawn to the handle, and it’s spiraling end. His hand twitched. 

Martin, for his part, was unperturbed. “I’m not an idiot, Jon.” He was so close now. “I’m not going to go through it or anything.” His hand slid from Jon's and wrapped around the matte black handle and he opened the door. The door opened in a long, painful creak, and for a moment Jon could see a long, windowless hallway with swirling green wallpaper, and Martin, unmoving, in the doorway. Jon didn’t look away, not for a moment. 

And yet when the door slammed shut, Martin was gone.

“Martin?” Any sense of self-preservation forgotten, Jon started jiggling the handle, which stayed firmly in place. He began pounding his quavering fists on the door. “Martin!”

“Hello!” Jon spun and there was a man behind him who was decidedly not Martin. He was tall. No, that was wrong. He was long, and his body undulated, and he smiled a wide grin with too many teeth, and he was made of angles that should not have been. His hair was straw yellow and it fell in short, close-cropped ringlets that filled the whole room like an ocean.

“Who...who are you?” stammered Jon, hefting the heavy torch like it was a baseball bat and like he was someone who could use it as such, and taking a step back into the door. This man hurt Jon’s eyes, but he refused to look away. Somehow, Jon was certain that this was not a man to lose track of.

The man’s smile widened, and more teeth appeared to fill it. “Why, I’m Michael!” The man, Michael, extended a bulbous, too large hand that Jon did not take.

“Michael?”

“Well, sort of. Being is hard, Beholdling.” Michael paused to give Jon a little mock pout and a once over with swirling, prismatic eyes. “You _are_ a little watcher, aren’t you?”

“I—“

“Excellent!” Michael clapped his hands and they made a sound like clattering bone. “I’ve been meaning to have a chat with your new Archivist for a while now. Picked by Gertrude Robinson herself. It’s quite an honor.”

Jon ignored him. “You’re the one who took Helen Richardson.”

“I certainly tried to. We’ll think of her as the one who got away.” He gave Jon a sly grin. “For now at least.”

Jon’s stomach sank. “That means you’ve got Martin where you had her.” He clutched the torch a little tighter, though it was already in a death grip and his knuckles were already white.

“Is that his name?” asked Michael. “Then yes, I do. He’s searching the corridors as we speak. His fear is quite delicious.”

“Give him back.” Jon’s voice shook, but he stood firm.

“No, I don’t think I will. It’ll be an excellent conversation starter with your Archivist.” The noise that came out of Michael’s mouth was as similar to laughter as a candle to an elephant, but there was no question that's what it was. It made Jon’s head feel like someone was pounding against it with a hammer. 

“Give him back!” Jon shouted and he hit the door again, harder this time, hard enough to make his hand sting, and hard enough to make Michael’s impossible smile falter. 

“Careful, Beholdling,” Michael warned. “You don’t have the protections or gifts that the Archivist does.”

Jon hit the door again. And again. And again. “I don’t care.” Jon felt something long and sharp enter his side and looked down to see one of Michael’s long fingers, now coated in his blood, being pulled slowly and painfully from his flesh.

“You should.” 

Jon gritted his teeth, partly to look more—he didn’t know, serious maybe?—and partly to keep from crying out. “Take me instead, then.”

“You?” Michael laughed again, and it still sounded wrong, like a headache or like thunder you’re sure should not be there. “You’re not half the meal your friend is. There’s far less meat on your bones.”

“We’re not friends,” muttered Jon. He wasn’t sure why. Habit maybe. 

“No? Seems an awful lot to go through for just a _colleague_.” Michael laughed and traced the shape of Jon’s jaw with a sharp finger that left blood on his chin. “You’re blushing, Beholdling.”

“What’ll it take then?” demanded Jon, ignoring Michael’s latter comment and the own heat in his cheeks, and jerking his face away from Michael's hand. “To get him back.”

“Hm.” Michael took a deep breath in and let it out, his body moving like an accordion and his breath sounding like broken bellows. “I’m not sure. I haven’t done a trade before. You don’t have anything I want, not really.”

“I could get you a meeting with Sasha,” Jon offered. “You want that, right?” Jon was pretty sure Sasha wouldn’t mind. Not if it got Martin back. She liked Martin, everyone did, no matter how annoying his presence was. 

“Is that your Archivist?” Michael thought for a moment, his eyes turning like gears. “No, I can get a meeting whenever I want. That’s hardly worth a meal.”

“What then?” Jon asked, desperation dripping from his every word. 

Michael smiled wider than he had ever before until Jon was quite certain that his face shouldn't have been wide enough to fit it, and that no one should have that many radiant white teeth. “I have an idea. A meal for a meal.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want me.” Jon clutched the torch's handle, feeling its geometric grip imprint on his palm, letting the slight pain ground him. He didn’t particularly want to die, but better him than Martin. Martin had so much to live for, a family, friends. What did Jon have? So if the cost of Martin’s life was his...well. There were worse prices to pay.

But Michael shook his head, rippling his curls until they crashed upon the walls like breaking tides. “Not you, Beholdling.”

“Then who?”

“I’m not going to tell you.” Michael laughed and he laughed and he laughed his headache laugh. “You just have to live with the knowledge that you’ve sentenced someone to death. You like knowledge, don’t you? You and your patron. Could you live with it?”

Jon probably should have thought about it. Should have deliberated, should have spent more than just a moment weighing Martin’s life against that of a stranger. But he didn't. He thought of Martin and his kind eyes and easy smile, of tea and distraction and peppermint hand soap. He thought of Helen Richardson and how afraid she’d been. And the thought of Martin like that, that afraid, and that alone, it was more than Jon could take.

Jon looked at Michael and he nodded. “Yes.”

“Excellent.” The yellow door creaked open, and Jon caught another glance of a hallway that didn’t seem to end. Michael was in the doorway in an instant, and his proportions seemed even more obverse in the corridors. “Goodbye, Beholdling. Tell your Sasha I’ll be seeing her around.” The door slammed, and there was nothing then but the fading sounds of a laugh that was not a laugh echoing through the house and the pounding of Jon's heart echoing in his ears. 

And then a figure, known and soft, and shaking like a leaf. Martin.

Martin spun, eyes darting around the room until finally landing on Jon. In an instant, his face lit up with recognition and relief. “Jon?” he gasped, his voice hitching on the word.

“Martin!” Jon rushed over to him and held his hand just to feel that he was really there. “Are you alright?”

Martin shook his head slowly and squeezed Jon’s hand. “The door it—I opened it but I didn’t go inside I swear—“

“It’s alright, Martin,” Jon soothed, staring at him, taking him in. He was here. He was _safe_. “It’s all alright. Let’s get out of here.” 

"Are you?"

Jon blinked. "What?"

"Alright?" Martin looked far too worried for Jon for someone who by all means should be far more concerned for himself. "Are _you_ okay, Jon?"

"I'm fine. He—Michael—didn't take me. I...oh." Jon furrowed his brow and put a hand to his side. His side where Michael had dug a finger between his ribs. His hand came back slick and red. "Well, I've been lightly stabbed but—"

"Jon!"

"I'm fine," Jon urged, clutching his side in a way he hoped both kept the blood in and put Martin at ease. He deserved to be at ease if nothing else. "You're here and that's what matters."

* * *

The car ride was quiet. Jon was driving. It wasn't that he didn't like driving, it was that he was rubbish at it, but it wasn't like he was going to make Martin drive after all of that, new stitches or no. Jon didn't like to focus on anything other than the road in front of him whenever he was at the wheel, and he wasn't sure if Martin was too immersed in his own thoughts to speak, or didn’t feel like talking to Jon at the moment. He’d been such an ass before Martin went through the door. And for long before that. And Jon wanted to say that to him, he really did. But the car ride was quiet all the same. 

“That map saved me, Jon.” 

Jon looked over the seat next to him to see Martin staring down at blue pen smudged hands. “What?” 

“The map that Helen gave me.” Jon studied Martin's trembling hands and saw bits and pieces of blue pen marks that had rubbed off on his hands. Marks he recognized. It was the map Helen had drawn, the one they’d been checking before Martin went through the door, the one, Jon realized, Martin had still had when he went through, and that showed the path through the hallway Michael came from. “When I went in there I took it out of my pocket and I just started following it. If she got out using it then, so could I. And it worked. She saved my life.” 

Jon was quiet. 

“Jon?”

Jon wouldn't look at him. “We should probably update her on our findings," he said after a long while.

“Right.” They were quiet again. The car rattled across long, empty streets, and long full ones, the busted radio sometimes flickering to life and playing a fragment of a song or an ad for something no one would ever buy. But the two of them were quiet. They stopped at a red light, and Martin interrupted an aging shock jock whose voice dripped with monotonous false enthusiasm crackling through the long broken speakers. Martin’s voice was soft and solemn. “So you believe me then?” he asked as the shock jock’s voice faded and silence returned to the car.

Jon met his eyes for a moment, his own filled with regret and earnestness and something else, probably, that made Martin look away. “How could I not?”

“I’m sure you’d find a way,” said Martin.

“I believe you. Of course I believe you. I was _there_ , I talked to that thing, Michael." Jon ran a hand through his hair. "And...and I _do_ believe the statements,” muttered Jon, eyes locked on the road, even though it was clear and straight.

Martin gaped at him. “What?”

“I’m not a moron.” Martin let out a snort that Jon chose to ignore. “I know they’re real. It’s just...it felt safer somehow. Not believing.” 

Martin leaned on the car door, elbow where the window and handle met. “It wasn’t.”

“No,” Jon agreed. “But I don’t think anything's safe. Not really.”

Martin looked for a moment at Jon, who met his eye, before looking down. “I think you’re right.” 

They pulled up to the house where Helen had sat and found an empty stoop. There was the sign for Wolverton-Kendrick and on it a smiling Helen, far happier and full of life than the version they had met, but the real person wasn't there. The only hint that she had been there at all were four discarded cigarette butts pushed hastily into the gardens below, a half-smoked cigarette still smoldering where it had been dropped. Martin got out of the car and glanced at the other houses, as if they’d pulled up to the wrong one, and sitting just next to them would be the same, tired Helen. 

“Where did she go?” asked Martin.

Jon stepped out too, though he didn’t bother looking around. What had Michael said? The one who got away for now? Something like that. And a meal for a meal. That, at least, Jon was sure of. So there was only one place that Helen Richardson could have gone. 

“Through the door.”

“Jon? Is she in that place again?" Martin's eyes were wide and full of fear and knowing. And he was looking to Jon to assuage that. Because he was his partner, and that's what partners did. Any words of comfort Martin was looking for, Jon did not supply. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. Martin rubbed his pen stained hands, "I dropped the map. In that place, I dropped it. It's still in there. Do you think she'll find it? Do you think she'll be fine?"

Jon still didn't have anything to say to him. What could he say that they both didn't already know, or that he didn't want to say yet? So he just walked to the abandoned cigarette and put it out. Jon fixed Martin with a long look. A sad look. A look that didn't say what it should have, but that said enough. And finally, he spoke.

“Let’s go home, Martin.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say that this was X-Files? Maybe, but drawing people in suits is fucking boring, so we're doing the next best Monser of the Week show and we're going Scooby-Doo. Enjoy.
> 
> Next Week: Tim loses a bet, Jon does the opposite of a self-care, Sasha hosts a family meeting, and Martin does not receive a kiss good night


	2. Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s the monster of the week?” asked Jon.  
> “It looks like it's a werewolf.”  
> Jon blinked. “A werewolf.”  
> “Yeah. Tim even drew a little picture for reference.” Martin held up the file, and sure enough, smack dab in the center was a marker doodle of a werewolf dancing on top of a bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Listening: _Werewolves of London _by Warren Zevo__  
>  For: Wow you really couldn't manage to not make this joke, huh, vibes
> 
> CW//
> 
> Blood  
> Death  
> (but it's not anyone we know or care about)  
> (yet)  
> Guilt

The Archives were still. They weren’t quiet by any means; the Archives were never quiet. But they were still. This was when Jon liked the Archives the best, with the hum of the fluorescent lights buzzing along overhead like a steady symphony, with Tim pounding something out on his laptop, hitting the keys with a ferocity that would suggest they owed him money, with Martin sorting files, the manila folders brushing against each other like tides crashing on a distant sandy shore. He could be anywhere in the world from listening to the sounds of the Archives, it was all about choosing what to listen to. For now though, however, Jon was content taking it all in as he took thin, scratchy notes on a statement about teeth. It was almost mediative. 

“Jon? Can I speak to you a minute?” Jon looked up from his legal pad to see Sasha leaning out of her office, her long, dark, curly hair cascading down her shoulders, and her eyes sternly staring out at him from behind her over-large round glasses.

Tim looked up from his laptop and tossed a grin at Jon. “Ooh, someone’s getting called into the principal's office. What did you do?” Tim leaned in towards him, body propped up by his elbows and chin in his hands.

Jon bit the inside of his cheek. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“What, did you kill someone?” laughed Tim, raising an amused eyebrow. 

Jon looked at the floor. 

Tim gawked at him. “Wait, _really?_ ”

“Indirectly!” hissed Jon, trying to keep his voice low and giving Martin a wary glance. He didn't seem to have noticed. Martin had headphones on and had begun swaying to a song only he could hear as he sorted through dusty boxes filled with nothing of value.

“Are you serious?” exclaimed Tim, struggling to match Jon’s volume, face fluctuating from a grin to a gasp and back again. Jon looked back over to him. His glance at Martin may not have been as short as he had intended it to be, but Tim seemed unperturbed. “You’re literally the least likely person in the office to kill someone! Do you know how non-threatening you have to be less likely to commit murder than _Martin?_ Because at least he’s got that whole mama bear thing going on, but you? I guess you’ve sort of got a Professor Plum thing going on if you really squint but—”

Jon stood hastily, his chair letting out an unholy squeak as he did so. “It...look, Sasha’s calling, and I’ve got to go.” Jon practically sprinted into Sasha’s office.

The office of the Head Archivist was aggressively ordinary. Sure, the Magnus Institute was a bit of a weird organization, but you wouldn’t be able to tell that from the Archives. Sasha’s office was just a normal manager’s office, glass windows facing out to the ocean of dusty metal shelves and moldering cardboard boxes. For now, though, her blinds were drawn, and so was her expression. Sasha sank onto her desk and gestured for Jon to sit in the Business Chair, one of two chairs other than her own in the office, (the other chair of course being the Tim Chair, a large purple beanbag that was more duct tape than anything else.)

“So I just had a very interesting meeting,” said Sasha as Jon sat down.

“I suppose that means Michael talked to you then,” sighed Jon, fidgeting in his seat.

Sasha gave him an inscrutable look. “It does, yeah.”

“Sasha I—” Jon started, but Sasha held up a hand to silence him.

“Jon, what you did was stupid, and reckless.”

Jon looked down at the beanbag-bean coated floor. “I know.”

“Someone’s dead because of you.” Sasha’s voice was cold. Not angry per se, but cold nonetheless. 

“I know that too.”

She let out a long, tired sigh. “But I probably would have done the same.”

“I know—what?” Jon looked up from the floor, an eyebrow raised and his mouth slightly open.

“You did it to get Martin out of that place, right?” asked Sasha.

Jon fought the urge to look away again. “Yes.”

“And I know that you offered up yourself first, which was _stupid_ and _not_ your call to make but…”

“But?”

“But I probably would have done that same to save you,” Sasha said. “Or Martin. Or Tim. And I think the others would have too.” They were quiet for a moment. Sasha furrowed her brow. “This isn’t excusing what you did, Jon.”

“I figured.”

“It’s just...look. I have another case for you and Martin.” Sasha shot Jon a small smile. “Try not to get anyone killed, alright?”

Jon returned it. “Alright.”

“And maybe tell Martin you killed someone for him,” she added, standing up and moving to her own chair, which bounced as she sat down. “That’s not a thing you keep to yourself. Do it...delicately.” 

Jon stood too. “I will. Thank you, Sasha.”

“Martin should have the file,” said Sasha, turning on the ancient monitor Elias had provided her. “And I’m warning you now it’s a weird one.”

“Weirder than the doors?”

Sasha opened her mouth as if to say something, and thought better of it. “You’ll see. Now get out of my office, I've got archivist stuff to do.”

Jon started to walk out and lingered in the doorway. “Is your archivist stuff watching _Real Housewives_ with Tim?”

Sasha glared at him and turned her monitor out of his view. “No. Go talk to Martin.”

“Enjoy your show,” said Jon, shooting her a wry grin as he closed the door behind him. He exited the office to find Martin loitering by the door, file in hand.

“What was that about?” he asked, smiling at him. 

Jon’s face fell. “Oh, you know. The usual.”

“Okay.” Martin’s face fell a little too. He looked sort of hurt, though hell if Jon knew why.

“Look, I’ll tell you about it later, alright?”

“You don’t have to, it’s fine.” Martin shifted his weight and ran a hand through his soft brown hair. “I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it I’m not going to make you, I—”

“No, I...I want to tell you,” said Jon, cutting him off. “Just not right now, okay? Mission first.”

“Right.” Martin smiled at him and was quiet for a beat, just sort of staring at Jon. Jon fidgeted nervously, and Martin straightened with a start. “I’ve got the case file if you want to look over it.”

“What’s the monster of the week?” asked Jon.

“It looks like it's a werewolf.”

Jon blinked. “A werewolf.”

“Yeah. Tim even drew a little picture for reference.” Martin held up the file, and sure enough, smack dab in the center was a marker doodle of a werewolf dancing on top of a bus.

Jon sighed and took the file, glaring at the image. “Of course he did. Knowing Tim, it’s probably a reference to something too.” He looked up from the file and raised an eyebrow at Martin. “Is it a reference?”

Martin nodded amusedly. “To _Teen Wolf_ , yes.”

“Which is a...television show?”

“And a movie,” agreed Martin. “Which is what this is referencing.”

Jon looked back down at the picture and shook his head. “ _Tim_ ,” he muttered. 

Martin fought back a snort. “You ready to go hunt down a werewolf?”

“I mean it can’t be—” started Jon, but Martin cut him off with a look.

“Jon, remember what we said about believing statement givers?” Martin asked, crossing his arms.

“I know, it’s just…” Jon looked up at Martin, pain in his eyes. “It’s a werewolf, Martin.”

Martin nodded unsympathetically. “Yup.”

“Like a classic movie monster werewolf.”

“Correct again.”

Jon scrutinized Martin for a minute before just closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Fine. Let’s go investigate a...a werewolf.” By the look on Jon’s face, you’d have thought he had been stabbed and someone kept twisting the knife. It was a look of pain, and of anguish, and of pleading. 

Martin met it with a cheery smile and a clap on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Jon. C’mon.”

* * *

“Well, this is a fun complication.” Jon and Martin stood in front of a tall, dark house. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and there was blood and police tape everywhere. A brusque looking hijabi woman in a dark brown pilot’s jacket approached them from the other side of the tape.

The woman flashed her badge at the pair and put her hands to her hips. “You two are going to have to go. This is an active crime scene.”

Martin piped up first. “Sorry, we were just wondering if Desmond Royce was here.”

“We’re supposed to talk with him,” Jon added.

“Well, you’re going to have some trouble with that,” the woman said. “He’s dead.”

Martin let out a strangled cry. “Dead?”

The woman looked nonplussed. “Yeah, in some sort of animal attack.” Jon and Martin exchanged a look, and the woman furrowed her brow. “What’s that look for?”

“Just...that’s sort of what we were going to talk to him about,” Martin said before Jon could stop him.

That seemed to surprise the woman. She recomposed herself and took a step towards them. “Do you have information related to this case?”

The pained look returned to Jon’s face. “We might.”

“I’m going to ask you to come with me, then.” The woman raised the police tape between them and gestured for the two of them to follow her. She took them into the house, though most of the blood was clearly elsewhere in the house. Even still, there were flashes of red and of yellow plastic markers that Jon tried not to look at. The officer finally stopped in the house's kitchen, where there stood a woman leaning on the kitchen counter, writing something in a pocket notebook. The woman was short in more way than one, in stature and hair most clearly, her close-cropped strawberry blonde hair looking newly shorn, but everything from the look on her face to the way she held herself told Jon she was shorter still of patience and manner. At their approach, she looked up to reveal fiery eyes and a vicious scar down her lip, making apparent that what she lacked in height she made up with presence tenfold. It was all Jon could do not to duck behind Martin as the scarred muscles of her arms, clearly exposed by her wifebeater, flexed ominously.

She nodded to the officer accompanying them. “Who’re these two, Basira?” 

“I’m Jonathan Sims, and this is Martin Blackwood,” said Jon, gesturing to Martin, his voice remaining far steadier than he felt. Martin gave the woman a little wave a small smile that she did not return. 

Instead, she crossed her scarred arms and shot back a curt nod. “Detective Daisy Tonner.” 

“They might know something about our victim,” explained the other detective, Basira. “How he died.”

“We know how he died,” Daisy said. “Looks like a bear got him.”

“Are there any bears in London?” asked Martin. 

Daisy turned on him, eyes like embers. “How would you explain it then?” she demanded. “The body’s nearly been torn in two and there’s claw marks up and down it.”

“A werewolf.”

Jon gaped at him, looking as though he’d been slapped. “Martin!”

Daisy just stared blankly at him, any reaction she might have had at this outburst concealed utterly by a stony, professional facade. “Excuse me?”

“That’s why we’re here,” continued Martin, despite the expressions of everyone else in the room. “Mr. Royce said he was being stalked by a werewolf, that’s why he talked to us.”

“Why, are you the Ghostbusters or something?” Basira asked.

“We’re from the Magnus Institute,” Jon explained, very much wishing that he wasn’t. “We...get a lot of these sorts of statements.”

“What, rubbish ones?” Daisy leaned forward on the kitchen counter. “I can tell you for certain that it wasn't a werewolf stalking ‘Mr. Royce,’ though. It was us.”

“He’s wanted for assault and battery,” Basira added, almost apologetically.

Daisy let out a small, breathy laugh. “Not to mention he’s probably done a whole lot worse.”

“We can’t be sure though.”

“No,” Daisy admitted begrudgingly. “But you saw the fingerprints on that head. They were smudged but they were definitely his.”

Basira looked back over to Jon and Martin and sighed. “You two can go if that’s all you have.”

Martin made a motion to leave, but Jon stopped him. “Do you want the statement he gave?” he asked.

“What?”

“Desmond Royce's statement. About the werewolf? I’ve got the file right here.” Jon put the statement down on the countertop. The detectives looked at it silently.

“Is that Michael Fox?” Daisy asked finally.

Jon sighed. “Our co-worker thought it would be funny.”

Daisy snorted appreciatively. “It is.”

“We’ll take it,” said Basira, grabbing the file and shoving it into her coat. “Thank you.” Jon and Martin headed out, but not before seeing the two detectives exchange a very long look.

The pair made their way out of the neighborhood and back into London propper, Martin’s car sputtering and groaning all the way. Jon was driving again. They switched off now more often than not. It just felt right. 

“So not a werewolf, then,” Martin said, sinking into the passenger seat.

“It would appear not,” agreed Jon. He glanced over at Martin. “You disappointed?”

Martin shrugged. “I mean, a little bit,” he admitted. “Do you think that Sasha’ll yell at us for giving away the file?”

“It was the _police_ , Martin.”

“True.” Martin tapped his foot in time to the turn signal unthinkingly. “We should probably head back to the Institute.”

“We could,” nodded Jon, making a turn that was far too wide. “Or we could not.” 

Martin sat up slowly. “What are you saying?”

“Tim and Sasha don’t know we finished early,” Jon said, not looking at Martin. “And they certainly don’t know how long the police held us.”

A smile crept up to Martin’s lips. “Are you suggesting we don’t do work?”

Jon rubbed the steering wheel and felt bits of it rub off in his hands. “I might be.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Jon?”

Jon let out a laugh and set an elbow on the stained armrest. “It’s just...there’s nothing pressing back at the office.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

“Fair point,” Jon admitted. “But still, it’s not like they’ll miss us.”

“Tim’ll miss us,” Martin pointed out.

“Tim will be fine,” Jon assured him. “I know for a fact that he and Sasha are behind a season anyway.”

Martin thought for a moment and nodded. “Alright. What do you suggest we do instead then?”

Jon shrugged sheepishly. “I hadn’t really planned that far ahead.”

“Jon!”

“What?”

“You really didn’t plan any further ahead?” asked an incredulous Martin, who it seemed was very rapidly losing his mental image of Jon. “You were just going to what, spend a few nondescript hours with me?”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Jon, looking for a moment away from the road. He spent that moment looking at Martin. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Martin’s face became tinged with pink and he looked down very quickly. “Oh. Um, right.” Martin rubbed his face and adjusted his glasses. “Well, in that case, I’m pretty sure there’s a cafe nearby. And it is almost lunch.”

“That sounds alright,” said Jon, pointedly ignoring the contagious heat in his own cheeks. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Jon and Martin sat opposite one another in a sickeningly adorable cafe. The whole place seemed tinged with a sepia haze, and the constant din of customers and employees chattering gave the shop an aggressively indie movie vibe. The whole place smelled like old teacakes and new coffee machines and that cinnamon smell that always clung to Martin. This whole place felt like Martin, the coziness of it, the softness of it, the reek of hope as the cafe’s patrons typed out what they were sure was the manuscript that would shoot them to stardom. And it was too hot. Jon felt flushed and took off the fraying suit jacket he had brought for a day he had thought was going to go very differently. Despite the sounds of the cafe around them, Jon and Martin were quiet. Painfully, crushingly, awkwardly quiet. 

Jon cleared his throat. “So.”

Martin looked up from his mug trepidatiously. “So.”

“What did you order?”

“Oh, this?” Martin glanced down at his mug for a moment and back at Jon with a feeble smile. “Just tea. Rooibos. It’s not really the right time for it but I like it and they’re always sold out in the shops, so,” shrugged Martin. “Rooibos. What did you get?”

Jon leaned into the table and sidled the cup in his hand with a look. “Coffee. Well, it’s not really coffee it’s more of an entire cup of espresso shots and a straw.”

Martin looked horrified. “Does it taste good?”

“Christ no,” said Jon, fervently shaking his head. “But that’s not really the point, is it?”

“What is the point? Never sleeping again?” demanded Martin, concern written all over his face.

Jon took a sip. “That would definitely be an upside.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t like sleep?”

“It’s just so...” started Jon, searching for the word. “Unproductive.”

“That’s a pro, not a con,” pointed Martin.

“Says you.” Jon took another sip. It looked like void concentrate, and it tasted like a migraine. 

“Says the world, Jon. Take a nap.” Martin shook his head. “Anyway, you said you wanted to talk?”

Jon looked over the mouth of his cup at Martin, eyebrow arched. “Aren’t we already?”

“I...yes,” stammered Martin. “But I thought you meant you had something specific in mind.”

Jon put down his cup with a sigh. “I sort of do.”

“Sort of?”

“Well I mean, I did just want to talk to you. In general,” said Jon, hastily adding, “We are partners after all.”

At that, Martin let out a soft “oh” and smiled to himself, much in the same way as he had in the car. “Not colleagues then?”

Jon fought back a similar reaction. “Not colleagues.”

Martin was quiet a moment as he battled down his smile. “What changed your mind?” he asked finally. “About us being partners, I mean.”

Jon bit his lip. “When you went through the door,” he admitted. “I just, I don’t know. Colleagues didn’t seem to fit after that.”

“Because you care?”

“Yes, because I care, Martin,” grumbled Jon. “You make it very hard not to care about you. It’s annoying.”

Martin grinned. “Don’t try and spoil that compliment, Jon.”

“Saying I care enough to not want you to be eaten by a door is not a compliment.”

Martin shook his head and took a sip from his quickly cooling tea, though he didn’t seem to mind that very much. “It is coming from you. You hate everyone.”

“I don’t hate _everyone_. I like lots of people.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Like?”

Jon glared at him, buying himself time to think. “Tim. Tim’s nice. And Sasha. And you too, though this conversation is making me reconsider your place on this list.”

Martin made a show of counting on his fingers. “That’s two and a half people.”

“Which makes it not everyone,” pointed Jon.

“Technically true,” Martin agreed. “But my point still stands. Jon compliments are like shiny Pokemon. Rare and—”

“Useless?”

Martin had chosen that moment to take a sip of his tea and choked on it so badly he had put down his mug. “You know Pokemon? _You?"_

“How old do you think I am?” gasped Jon, following suit.

Martin threw up his hands defensively. “I don’t know! You tend not to know about these sort of things.”

“Yes, but it’s _Pokemon_ , Martin,” snapped Jon. “I know Pokemon. I’m not completely out of touch.”

Martin shot him a teasing grin. “Just mostly out of touch then?” Jon couldn't argue with that. Half of the things that came out of Tim’s mouth might as well have been in an alien tongue for as little as he understood them. And as much as he hated not knowing things, he didn’t even know where to start. Sometimes Tim would corral the Archival staff over to his computer for a “brain break,” and despite his rather adamant protests and loudly reminding everyone that they had work to do, Jon found himself enjoying them. Especially when it meant he could understand some new nonsense that Tim dispensed. At least he fully understood what he was being annoyed by.

“How old are you then?” Martin stared at him expectantly, and Jon realized with a start he had been silently lost in thought for the past few minutes. 

“Hm? Oh, twenty-seven”

Martin didn’t even try to mask his surprise. “Really?”

“I look older, I know,” Jon sighed. “It’s the hair.” He brushed back a strand, prematurely grey, though not irritatingly so. It tended to make people respect him more. 

“How are you younger than me?” 

Jon was taken aback. “I’m younger than you?”

“By two years, yeah,” Martin nodded.

“But you look—”

“I know, I know,” said Martin waving away his comment in a way that suggested Jon’s reaction was not an uncommon one. “I still get carded now and again at bars.”

“You go to a lot of bars?”

“Not really. I don’t particularly like drinking alone. And besides,” he said besides he said with a shrug, “Tannins are a proven headache trigger.”

Jon squinted at him. “There's tannins in tea as well." Martin ignored him. "Though I understand the aversion to drinking alone. I’ve got a bottle of red wine in my apartment from a recipe I tried ages ago but that’s probably the last alcohol I’ve had since uni.”

Martin cocked his head. “I thought you didn’t cook.”

“I said I was bad at cooking,” Jon corrected. “Not that I didn’t try every now and again.”

“What did you try to use the wine in?” asked Martin, taking a sip of his tea, now almost certainly cold.

Jon grimaced. “I don’t even remember. Something bad.” 

Martin laughed that laugh like the sun after a rainstorm, and Jon felt his insides squirm. He gave a look to the still mostly full cup of espresso and pushed it aside. Martin, for his part, didn’t seem to notice, and just shook his head with a smile. “Didn’t you say that you had something to tell me?”

Jon blinked. “I did, yes.” He had to tell Martin at some point. About Helen. About Michael, about getting Martin out, and how desperate he had been. That’s what Sasha had said, that’s what Jon knew to be correct, why they were even at this stupid cafe with its teacake smell in the first place. But then again, they were already here and talking, _really_ talking, for the first time. Martin was laughing, and sharing, and teasing, and Jon was right there beside him doing the same. Would they get another moment like this after? Another cafe, another discussion, another moment where Martin looked at him like he was someone to trust and care about and not a murderer? 

Jon rubbed his eyes. “But it’s nothing. Not important.” He smiled at Martin, and Martin smiled back, albeit a little sheepishly. No, he couldn’t tell him now. But he would. After the case. Sasha would want them to follow up a little more, she always did. And it wouldn’t be loads of time, but it would be enough. “Now should we get some food, or will caffeine sustain us for the rest of the day?” 

* * *

Tim and Sasha were not, as it turned out, slacking off as Jon had expected them to be. Or at least, not anymore. As Jon set his things down on his desk, Tim looked up from his laptop and Sasha rolled herself out of her office on her dangerously creaky office chair. Tim grinned up at them. “You two sure took your time.”

“We were held up by the police,” explained Jon wearily, sitting down in what should have been his chair. It was instead a rusty student’s seat that everyone passed around the Archives. Tim had been saddled with it last and had most likely swapped it while he and Martin were out.

“The police?” said Tim disappointedly, semi-discreetly slipping Sasha some cash.

Martin eyed the bills Sasha was counting. “What did you think you were doing?”

“That’s not important right now,” Sasha said, shoving the money into her jeans. “You said you talked to the _police?”_

Nodding, Martin glanced over at Jon as if for confirmation, though confirmation of what, Jon couldn’t tell. “Yeah. Royce is dead.”

“Murdered, by the looks of it,” added Jon bluntly.

“It’s not murder if an animal killed him,” Martin contended.

“Did the werewolf get him?” asked Sasha, seriously, as far as Jon could tell.

“There was no werewolf,” sighed Jon. “The police were just tracking him.”

Martin shot Sasha a nervous look. “And we sort of gave them his file.”

Tim rolled his chair closer to the rest of them. “Did the cops at least like my drawing?”

“Yes, actually,” said Jon, squinting at Tim’s chair and checking if it was his last.

Tim grinned. “Excellent.”

“But no werewolf?” interjected Sasha.

Jon shook his head. “It didn’t look like, no."

Sasha ignored him, turning her attention towards: “Martin?”

Martin sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah.”

“I could have sworn…” Sasha furrowed her brow at her office. She held up a finger. “Hold on.” Sasha stood and made her way back into her office. The Archives were quiet a beat, save for the sounds of file cabinets being opened and closed, and Sasha muttering something indiscernible to herself. 

“Sasha?” called Martin, clearly worried.

Sasha came back into the room with a file and a triumphant look on her face. She slapped the file down, throwing it open on Jon’s desk, and gestured for the others to circle around. “Look. This is another statement claiming to be from someone who’s being stalked by a werewolf.”

Jon glanced down at the file and its hurried scrawl and then back up at Sasha. “And?”

Sasha tapped a part of the file with urgent fingers. “Look!” she exclaimed. “Right there! He mentions Royce!”

Jon looked again, and sure enough, there was _Desmond Royce_ written out, albeit thoroughly smudged. “The cops are probably following him too,” Jon said finally.

Martin looked at Sasha apologetically from behind Jon. “They _did_ say Royce killed someone.”

“Yeah, but this is our third werewolf statement,” Sasha pointed out. “This one mentions Royce, and Royce’s mentions the other one. I think Tim has it.”

Tim wheeled back over to his desk and started rooting through its drawers. He tossed the file over to Martin Frisbee style, miraculously without any of the papers falling out. “Here you are.” Martin lowered the file so Jon could see it. Doodled on its cover was a sharpie drawing of Lupin from _Harry Potter_.

Jon gave Tim a look somewhere between annoyed and bemused. “Are you going to draw on all of them?”

“It helps keep them organized,” shrugged Tim, wheeling his way back to where the rest of the Archival staff were congregated. “This way you can easily spot a werewolf statement.”

Sasha groaned and massaged her temple. “I’ve been spending too much time with you. That sort of makes sense.”

“Of course it makes sense. It’s _genius.”_

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“So there is a werewolf, then?” interrupted Martin. “And it’s already killed one of them?”

“That,” Jon said. “Or they’re all being stalked by the police and are having delusions of werewolves.” Martin shot him a look.

“If that’s true, then what happened to Royce?” asked Sasha.

“It’s not like there are bears in London,” Martin said, glowering at Jon. 

Jon withered under the look. “A weird dog, maybe?” He was reaching.

Sasha got a pensive look on her face and leaned onto the head of Tim’s (Jon’s) chair. “When it comes down to it, what are werewolves if not weird dogs?” she mused.

Tim nodded thoughtfully. “She’s got a point.”

“No she doesn’t,” groused Jon. “Look, something definitely killed Desmond Royce, and it wasn’t a bear like the police said. The jury’s still out on whether or not it was a _werewolf_ , but it was definitely something.”

Sasha nodded. “We need Royce’s file.” Sasha looked down at Tim expectantly.” Tim?”

“Am I ready to use my weaponized sexuality to get our file back from the police?” Tim grinned mischievously. “It’ll be hard, but anything for you, boss.” He straightened in his chair and gave Sasha a mock salute.

Sasha rolled her eyes and focused back on Jon and Martin. “As for you two, you should look through the other two files.”

“What are we looking for?” asked Martin.

“I’m not sure. Something concrete.” Sasha clasped her hands together like a teacher addressing a rowdy class. “Right, everyone knows what they’re doing?” The assistants nodded. “Family meeting adjourned, then.” 

* * *

Martin looked up bleary-eyed from a case file he’d read a dozen times over and tapped Jon’s arm. “So have you thoroughly read yours yet?” It was late, though you could hardly tell from the Archives. There were no windows there, and the fluorescent lights were a constant sun above them, remaining on until the last person had left. Oftentimes, when Jon worked late, later than he was supposed to or would ever admit to his coworkers, the lights never got turned off.

Jon clicked his pen and fixed his glasses, which had slid down his nose in however long he and Martin had been reading in silence. Hours, at least. He didn’t even remember when Tim had gone, though looking around now he could see his bag wasn't propped up by his desk anymore. “And annotated it.” Martin looked incredulously at him. “I read fast.” 

Jon _was_ a fast reader. Far faster a reader than Martin, and just a bit faster than he had read this statement. The statement had been boring, where most of the statements here usually weren’t. He often found his eyes unable to focus on the words, and they drifted over to Martin, who had taken off his sweater sometime between Jon’s second and third re-read (the third-best note-taking read), and whose arms in his pale blue undershirt reminded Jon why he hated working with him. 

“Clearly.” Martin sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Did you find anything?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “But probably not what Sasha was looking for.”

“We don’t know what Sasha is looking for.” Martin flipped his file closed with a finger. “What did you find?”

“First of all,” started Jon. “None of this statement is capitalized.”

Martin snorted. “Second of all?”

“Second of all, the police were definitely right that Royce killed someone. This one,” said Jon, tapping his folder, “Ewan Abbot, helped. And someone named Robin Ambrose.”

Martin made a face. “Hold on.” He reopened his file and began hurriedly searching for something, knocking his balled-up sweater off the table where he’d lain it down, in the process.

Jon caught it before it could hit the ground and gingerly placed it back on the table, his fingers lingering on the softness of the fabric. “What is it?”

Martin looked up from his file and squinted at Jon. “You said 'Robin Ambrose,' right?”

Jon gave Martin a worried look. “Yes?”

A smile broke out across Martin’s face. “He’s in my statement too.”

“Really?” Jon almost laughed with surprise.

“Yeah!” said Martin excitedly. “He’s dead!”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

“No, but that's a good thing,” protested Martin, smile still firmly in place.

“Is it?”

“It means the werewolf’s struck before,” he explained. “You remember the way the detective described Royce’s body, right? Torn in two, claw marks up and down the body?”

Jon nodded. “Right.”

“That’s the way Ambrose’s body is described here.” Martin excitedly pointed to a passage in his folder and Jon’s eyes darted across it in double time.

His jaw went slack. “Good lord.”

“How did your statement giver, Abbot, know them?” Martin asked.

“They were Ambrose’s boyfriend,” said Jon, numbly, still reeling from the realization. “Tended to tag along with Ambrose, and Royce. We need to talk to him before he gets killed."

“We need to talk to the _police_ before Ewan Abbot gets killed,” Martin corrected.

“Why?”

"They're the police!" cried Martin, clearly somewhat surprised he had to explain why you should go to the police when you suspected someone’s life was in danger.

“They might be able to help,” Jon mused. “And maybe they’ve seen something. They were tailing Royce, remember?”

“Right.”

“So they might have been tailing Ambrose too.”

“Which means they’re probably following Abbot as well,” finished Martin, eyes wide.

Jon stood. “We need to get Sasha.”

Martin did the same. “I’ll get her,” he said and bounded off. Jon watched him go with a sigh. He glanced back down to the statement and started re-reading it for the umpteenth time. For some reason, this time the statement seemed far more engaging. Probably because he knew the statement giver was a dead man walking. He was about halfway done when Martin returned with Sasha in tow. From the look on her face, Jon assumed Martin had told her everything.

“So you two have a lead then?” she asked as they approached the table Jon and Martin had claimed. 

Jon nodded. “It looks like it.”

“We should probably check with Royce’s file, though,” added Martin. “Just to be sure.”

“Well, there’s nothing either of you can do about that tonight.” Sasha shifted her weight and the positioning of her bag. Martin must have grabbed her just as she was heading out. “Tim hasn’t gotten the file yet.”

Martin looked crestfallen. “Is there really nothing we can do? Ambrose’s life is on the line.”

Sasha hefted her back, which had begun once again sliding down her coated arm. “From what you told me I don’t see anything that could help him at the moment.”

“There must be something,” protested Jon, probably a bit more forcefully than he’d intended.

“You’ve done what you can, for now, Jon,” Sasha soothed. “All you can do now is get some sleep so you don’t pass out over the file when Tim gets back.”

“I can’t just leave him to die, Sasha.” _Not again_.

Sasha paused, reading him. Finally, she just shrugged and hefted her bag over her shoulder again. “Well, I’m not going to kick you out or anything. If you want to spend the night re-re-reading the statement, I’m not going to stop you, but it’s not going to do anything as long as you do get home at some point. But I’m going to head out. It’s late.” She pulled out her phone and sucked her teeth. “Beyond late, really.” She shoved her phone back into the pocket of her absurdly large utility coat and nudged Martin with her elbow. “You coming, Martin?”

Martin shook his head. “I think I’m going to stay. Help Jon look through the files.” He smiled at Jon, and Jon felt his face grow warm. “See what we can find.”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself. Though I think the buses stop running in about an hour or so. Have a good night, you two. Don’t spend it all here.”

“Good night, Sasha,” said Martin, waving at her.

“Good night.” Sasha returned the gesture and went on her way. 

As the sound of footsteps faded into a distant memory, Jon looked at Martin. At his soft brown hair, his round pink cheeks, at his bare arms with the beginning of goosebumps dotting up and down them. “You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said quietly.

“I know,” said Martin, smiling at him again. He never seemed to run out of smiles, not even for Jon. “But it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do than save someone's life.”

“Sleep? I seem to remember that you’re a fan,” Jon reminded him.

Martin cocked his head and let his smile turn into a teasing smirk. “And _I_ seem to remember that you aren’t. Maybe this way I can force you to actually get some of it.” Martin stretched and his back made a fearsome series of pops. “Anyway, I’m not going to leave you here alone scouring through a statement you’ve already read, what, a dozen times?”

Definitely more than that, but that wasn't something Martin needed to know. “Something like that.”

Martin stretched again, and his arm popped in turn. “I’ll go make us some tea.”

“No, wait, Martin.” Martin turned to see Jon on his feet, hand extended. Jon’s hand lowered sheepishly. “I’ll do it.”

Martin arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

Jon shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Yes?”

“Was that a question?” laughed Martin, covering his face with a hand to try and stifle it.

Jon threw up his hands defensively. “I don’t know! You’re...you’re making me lose confidence in my tea-making ability,” he said, looking down.

“You said you couldn’t cook, it’s a perfectly reasonable assumption that you can’t make tea either!” Martin cried.

“I also said making tea and cooking are two entirely different things,” pointed Jon. “I should be fine.”

Martin shook his head, giving up trying to stifle his laugh. “You have made tea before, right?” he asked.

“No,” Jon admitted. “But I’ve watched people make it before.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “I forgot you were a coffee person. Does that nightmare you bought at the cafe count as coffee?”

“Technically speaking it does,” said Jon thoughtfully. “Though I’m not really a coffee person. It helps you get through long nights, but it tastes awful.”

“That’s because you’re drinking more espresso in one sitting than any normal person could ever drink and survive. And if you’re not a coffee person, what _is_ your drink of choice?”

“I’m not really a hydration person, if we’re being honest.”

Martin looked scandalized. “Jon!”

“What? I’ve got better things to do than constantly drink and use the bathroom.” Martin looked like he was gearing up to berate him for his blatant disregard of his own wellbeing but Jon cut him off. “We were talking about making tea? I’ll be fine. It’s only what, four ingredients?”

Martin made a face but was clearly distracted by Jon’s tea making ineptitude. “Something like that, yeah.”

“And it’s not really anything other than putting a little baggie in a cup of hot water.”

The corners of Martin’s mouth twitched. “In essence.”

“So I’ll be fine,” said Jon, half telling Martin, half telling himself. He started to head to the breakroom, last vestiges of abandoned holiday decorations still visible through the broken blinds facing the pair.

“Wait, I’m coming with you.” And Martin was beside him, smelling of cinnamon and pen ink and old paper. 

“I don’t need help,” protested Jon halfheartedly.

Martin smirked at him, amusedly. “I wasn't offering to help, I just think it’ll be funny to watch."

Jon tried to fix him with a withering glare, but he just laughed and shook his head. “I...shut up.” His laugh might not have sounded like bells or choir or whatever other nonsense poets compared laughter to, but from Martin’s expression, it might as well have.

* * *

The Archives were still. Not quiet; they were never quiet. But they were still, and that was how Jon liked them best. It was late, though how late Jon couldn’t say. He had to force his eyes to focus on the note he was writing in the margins of what had been Martin’s statement who knew how many hours ago. But it wasn’t either of their statements now with how many times the folders had switched hands, and they were both barely legible with notes. 

The table they had set up shop at was strewn with empty pens and half-filled tea mugs, abandoned after their third refill. Jon finished what he was writing and finally pushed the folder away from him, taking care not to jostle Martin’s discarded sweater as he did so. The sweater’s owner was hunched over the table, just like he had been for ages.

“Martin?” Jon asked softly. “Are you still awake?” Martin made no reply. He was clearly asleep, and he probably had been for a while now. If there was one thing Jon had learned at uni it was that most people couldn’t keep up when it came to staying up. Even Georgie, the only one who had ever been able to come close, couldn’t stay up for very long compared to him. But there was no need to think about Georgie right now. No, now was time to get Martin into a proper bed and not just slumped over a table.

Jon had once had a little nook with a cot and a couple of sets of clean clothes for staying late. Sasha had been livid when she’d found it, and so his current place to sleep in the Archives was far less cozy. He’d found an empty closet a bit ago, and while it was cramped and a bit creepy, it was out of the way and Sasha hadn’t managed to find it yet. Jon had outfitted his little alcove with pillows and blankets, and he’d even wheeled his cot back into the Archives, even if it took up most of the closet. It wasn’t comfortable, but it also wasn't uncomfortable. In short, it would do.

Jon stood and walked over to Martin. He pulled him to his feet, nearly toppling under Martin’s weight more than once, and gently lead him through the Archives. Jon pulled open the door of the closet with some difficulty and as delicately as he could, he plopped Martin onto the cot. Martin stirred, but only for a moment. He was clearly an impressively deep sleeper. 

Blankets. Jon needed blankets. He hoped the few thin little things he kept in here would be enough to keep Martin warm and covered. For a moment Jon even considered tugging off his shoes, but that felt a little forward for coworkers somehow, even if they were partners. Because they were. If nothing else tonight had proven that. He didn’t know anyone else in the world who would spend the night in a dusty Archive reading files with him, nor could he think of anyone he’d rather do as such with.

Jon lingered for a moment in the closet doorway, looking over at the sleeping Martin who was just beginning to snore. In the stillness of the Archives, Jon could be anywhere in the world in a moment. Even still, he couldn't imagine being anywhere better than here. He padded back over to the table and forced himself to look over the statements again. He had them practically memorized by now, but he didn’t care. It didn’t look like he was going to be getting much sleep anyway, what with the cot taken. He didn’t mind though. The Archives were still. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter done! And look, a picture! Originally the first chapter also had a picture, but I've officially looked at it for so long that I hate it, so no picture for chapter one just yet. Don't worry, you'll see the boys soon enough! Shout out to my most excellent beta rippleskip whom you can find on tumblr and Ao3. I'm @defnotducks on Twitter, so if you want to see me not post my art and harass me about getting to writing chapter 5, do it there!
> 
> Next Week: Sasha is disappointed, Daisy is scary, Martin looks pretty, and Jon doesn't know what a "poggers" is


	3. Partners In Crime Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jon?”  
> “Hm?”  
> “Is that my sweater?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so this chapter and the next were originally one chapter, but that chapter was almost 9,000 words so I split that bad boy in half! Unfortunately, this means that this chapter and the next are a little shorter than usual, so sorry for that. It also means my suggested listening is taken, and that I needed to come up really fast for a song that probably applies more generally to both of these chapters, probably more so the second one.
> 
> Suggested listening: _Partners in Crime (feat. Ash Costello)_ by Set It Off, Ash Costello - Cinematics (Expanded Edition)  
> For: I should have picked a more relevant back up song vibes
> 
> CW//
> 
> Outing yourself  
> Guilt

It was early and Jon probably could have slept for longer, but that had never stopped him from getting work done before and he was not about to let it stop him now. So there he sat at his desk, sleep in his eyes and miscellaneous files in his hands, quietly doing work. It was familiar. It was mundane, and it was mindless enough that Jon’s mind could wander. And so it did. His thoughts drifted absently to Martin. To Martin in the cot, face soft and relaxed, deep brown curls cascading serenely into his eyes. To Martin illuminated in the harsh white of the fluorescents as he told Sasha he was going to stay, to Martin’s spluttering indignation as Jon told him he wasn’t a hydration person, to Martin—

To Martin standing in front of him, face slightly pink from sleep, Jon assumed, looking at him in bemusement. “Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Is that my sweater?”

Jon blinked up at him, confused. “Is...what?” And then he looked down and felt his face turn red hot. There, hanging loosely off his scrawny frame, was a sweater. 

A very familiar sweater. 

All at once, Jon became aware of it flooding his senses, the softness of the fabric, the worn, pale blue yarn, the distinct smell of cinnamon. At least he had an explanation for why he’d been thinking about Martin. It was impossible not to in the damn thing. 

“Oh. Um, yes, I suppose it...is. Sorry, I didn’t realize. I must have put it on without thinking. Here, give me a moment, I’ll give it back.” Jon’s hands fumbled to the hem of the sweater, finding it just above the middle of his thigh.

Martin glanced at his feet and turned even pinker. “Jon, it’s alright.”

“What?”

“It’s alright." Martin met Jon’s eyes, and Jon recognized the earnestness in them. Not that it was hard to find earnestness looking at Martin. “Keep it on. God knows I have enough sweaters.”

Jon slowly, cautiously released the sweater’s hem. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Jon.” Martin smiled trepidatiously. “It suits you.” 

“Oh. Right. Thank you.” He looked down at the box of papers and an awkward quiet settled over the pair, neither of them looking at the other. In the silence Jon found himself rubbing the edge of the sleeve almost absentmindedly.

“Anyway, that’s not what I came here to talk to you about,” Martin managed after a beat.

“No, of course not.” Jon looked up at him, letting the edge of the sweater sleeve drop. “What is it?”

“Why do we have a cot in the back of the Archives?”

“Well, we don’t,” Jon corrected. “I do. It’s for when I work late.”

The look on Martin’s face was one of mingled horror and concern. “Are you serious? Jon, have you been sleeping at the Archives?”

There was a loud _ker-chunk!_ as the door to the Archives closed and slotted itself back into place. Footsteps, heavy and sure, approached the two of them, and there was Sasha, brow furrowed. 

“Jon, you better not be sleeping in the Archives again,” she said, arms and expression cross.

The horror on Martin’s face intensified. _“Again?”_

“Jon!” Sasha dropped her bag on Tim’s desk and gave Jon an exasperated look. 

“What?”

Sasha pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Tell me you didn’t spend another night on that fucking cot, Jon.”

“Technically,” said Jon. “Martin was on the cot.”

“Oh, so you’ve roped Martin into your little workaholic sleepovers, then?”

Jon threw his hands up defensively. “It got late! I can’t control time, or when the buses stop running.”

“But you can control when you stop working and go home, Jon.” Sasha sighed and rubbed her eyes, displacing her massive, round glasses in the process. “Whatever, did you get any farther in the case at least? Get anything out of your little night in?”

“Not really, no,” admitted Jon sheepishly.

Sasha shook her head, fury melting gently into annoyance. “Ridiculous. You two are ridiculous.”

“Don’t blame Martin,” Jon argued, feeling an odd stab of protectiveness for his...for his partner. “He didn’t do anything.”

“He’s an enabler. You,” said Sasha, pointing at Martin. “Are an enabler.”

“I didn’t know this was something he made a habit of!” Martin exclaimed.

“What’s Jon made a habit of?” The Archive’s door made another sound of clicking metal as Tim entered the room, lopsided grin glinting mischievously in the fluorescent light. “Is it a fun habit or a sad habit?”

“Sad habit,” said Sasha. “Jon’s sleeping in the Archives again. With Martin too, this time.”

“Jon and Martin sleeping together in the Archives?” laughed Tim, flopping down onto his (Jon’s) chair with a bounce. His gaze flicked over to Jon, still bundled in Martin’s warm blue sweater and his grin widened. “Oh. Apparently so. Good for you two!”

In an instant, Martin turned beet red. “What? I—no!”

“That’s not what happened at all—”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, really you guys,” said Tim with a supportive wink. Could winks be supportive? They could from Tim, whose smile and arms were spread wide. “No judgment here.”

Jon’s face felt hot, and suddenly he was burning up in the sweater. “That’s not what this—”

“—just a simple misunderstanding, not—”

“—God, I wouldn’t, that’s not—I—” Jon ventured a glance at Martin, who he had been working very hard to not make eye contact with through their cacophony of stammered denials. What shade of red was Martin’s face? He almost seemed to be glowing, or at least the patches of his face Jon could see were as Martin had placed his hands to his face as if that made it so the rest of them couldn’t see him. The sight of it gave Jon a sudden pang of emotion, though he wasn’t sure which one. In his own blustered denials, he hadn’t even thought about Martin doing the same by his side. Christ, he could only imagine what it must be like for him to have Tim insinuate that he had done... _that_ with _Jon_ of all people. Jon, who worked too much, slept too little and spent his few moments of interaction with people snapping at them. No wonder he was so red.

“Honestly, I’m proud of you both,” continued Tim, unperturbed by Jon and Martin’s objections. “You’ve collectively got the assertiveness of a paperclip.”

“Tim, that’s not...I don’t,” said Jon, rather louder than he’d meant to. He felt the heat of his co-workers' gazes on him, thick and heavy like marsh air.

Tim blinked. “Oh.”

“With anyone,” he continued, glancing at Martin again. “It’s just not something I do.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize.” Tim’s smile was gone in an instant and he ran a hand through his fine black hair.

“It’s fine,” urged Jon.

“It’s not, though.” Tim looked apologetic and angry at himself all at once. Anger didn’t seem to fit Tim’s face, not real anger at least. It seemed wrong and unfamiliar, like a shirt that was too tight. “That was shitty of me.”

“Tim, it’s alright.” Jon sighed and readjusted his glasses, mostly so he had an excuse to do something with his hands. “I don’t tout it, but it’s not like I try to hide my asexuality either. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to give Martin his sweater back.” Jon could feel their eyes follow him as he made his way to the alcove with the cot. He had shirts there along with full sets of clothes so Sasha wouldn’t notice his sleeping arrangements. He’d have to move the cot again. That was a shame. Jon had been rather proud of the cubbyhole he’d found, hidden away from the desks but still close enough that he didn’t feel lost in the labyrinthian hell that was the deep Archives. 

He thought about what Martin had said last night, about getting rid of the cot. It was something to think about, at least. Something other than the look on Martin’s face at the thought of being with him, even if it was in the, uh, _biblical_ sense. It hurt a little bit. It shouldn’t because it was _Martin_ and it was in _that_ way, but it did. Jon pulled off Martin’s sweater somewhat reluctantly. Sure it fit him like a tent, but it had been warm and soft and it had smelled like Martin, which wasn’t something he cared about, just something nice. Martin smelled nice. Jon let go of the button he’d been doing up and rubbed his eyes. He really did need more sleep if he was thinking about how Martin smelled. 

Jon made his way back to the assistants' desks and found them just as silent and tense as he had left them. It was clear no one has spoken since he left. Wordlessly, Jon handed Martin’s sweater back to him, who held it limply. 

Jon uncomfortably cleared his throat and looked at Tim. “Did you get the file back yet?”

“I...no,” sighed Tim, who Jon noticed was now sitting at the awful green student chair and not in Jon’s. “They changed who’s at the front desk at the precinct, and so now it’s this delightful old woman. And she’s lovely, and I’ve got loads of gossip about the police force now if any of you are interested, but she’s both married and competent so I don’t think we’re going to be getting the file the usual way.”

“How are we going to get it, then?” Sasha asked, looking at her assistants, waiting for suggestions like she was a grades teacher waiting for someone to call out the right answer so they could move on to the next part of the lesson.

“We could always ask for it back,” suggested Martin somewhat sheepishly. “Through the normal channels.”

“It’s police evidence,” pointed Jon, letting himself sit down again and feeling the familiar bounce of his (his!) chair under him. “I don’t think they just give that to random civilians.”

“We’re not ‘random civilians,’” Martin said, pitching his voice lower and accentuating his accent in what was probably supposed to be an imitation of Jon. “It’s ours.”

Jon decided to ignore the impersonation. “It was until we gave it to the police.”

“Whose fault was that?”

“What was I supposed to do, withhold evidence from the _police?"_

“You both make solid points,” interrupted Sasha wearily. “Though solid points don’t get us our file back.” The room fell into a far more comfortable contemplative silence.

“We need to go to the police station anyway to warn them that Abbot’s life is in danger, right?” started Martin carefully. “Why don’t we ask them for the file then?” Tim didn’t look surprised by the information that someone's life was in danger, noted Jon. Sasha had probably texted him about it after she’d left last night.

“If the police are going to be protecting Abbot from the...from the werewolf,” said Jon, making a face as he choked the word _werewolf_ out, “shouldn’t they have the file anyway?”

“Jon’s right,” agreed Tim. “If the police are going to be guarding Abbot they should have the full picture.”

Sasha nodded at Tim before raising an eyebrow at Jon and Martin. “You two have those files memorized, right?”

“Just about,” Jon said.

“Then you should bring them with you to the police station.” Sasha leaned amicably on Tim’s desk, though her voice remained staunchly that of authority. "Maybe it’ll help convince the police that the werewolf is a threat, and if they take the files from you, well maybe your idiotic slumber party was worth something.”

“And if we can’t convince them?” Jon turned to see Martin, worry causing him to clutch the sweater in his hands to his chest.

Sasha’s face remained firmly confident. “It won’t come to that.”

* * *

The woman sitting at the precinct reception desk did not fit. 

Sure she seemed snug enough in her little corner, smiling cheerily at Jon and Martin as they entered with her hands clasped neatly over a rather loud floral print dress, but that was the problem. Her warmth didn’t fit.

The precinct was a cold place, officers pacing the bullpen with sharp expressions and sharp features cast sharper by the harsh light of the overheads. Harsh was the right word, truly, for as Jon cast his eye towards the rest of the precinct all that greeted him were glares and lips curled with disdain. But there was none of that with the woman at reception. She looked like someone’s grandmother, all cookies and sweaters and thick lilac perfume. 

“Can I help you?” she asked as Jon and Martin planted themselves in front of her desk.

“Yes," said Jon, nervously shifting the files in his arms. "We were looking for Detective Tonner and her partner.” 

In an instant, the receptionist’s face fell, and she looked just as cold and beaten down as the rest of the precinct staff. She still looked like someone’s grandmother, just more like Jon’s than the one you’d see on TV. “Christ, what did she do this time? Basira said she could control her but every time there’s more complaints!” 

“What? No, we just have information on a case she’s working on,” Martin assured her.

“Oh. Really?” The woman didn’t look convinced. “You sure it’s just that? You’re not just being all sneaky-like for revenge?”

“I don’t think so?”

“Right.” A relieved smile crept to the woman’s face and she sighed. “Isn’t that a relief? I’ll call her and Detective Houssain if you’ll just give me a moment.” The receptionist turned from Jon and Martin for a moment as she made a hasty call. “Right. Mint?” She pushed a clear plastic tin towards the pair of them, the contents of which seemed to be a chalky pale green brick that smelled like spearmint and tobacco. Jon was just about to make some excuse when the gate of the bullpen swung open and Detectives Tonner and Houssain made their entrance.

Daisy was the first to speak as she made her way to reception, looking dourly at the woman seated there. “Elaina, what’s this...about…” She trailed off as she saw Jon and Martin standing there.

“Oh great,” sighed Basira. “The Ghostbusters are back.”

Daisy’s lip curled contemptuously. “Do you two actually have something to help us put a killer away or is this more about werewolves?”

Martin fidgeted nervously. “Both?”

“Was that a question?” asked Basira, eyebrow raised.

“This is a waste of our time, Basira,” snarled Daisy, nudging her with her elbow and turning to leave. “We’ve got a murderer to bring to justice, we don’t have time for this.” 

Jon took a step forward. “Please, Detective, Ewan Abbot’s life is in danger.”

Daisy spun, eyes furrowed to slits. “How do you know that name? He wasn’t in the Royce statement.”

“He—he gave us a statement of his own,” Jon stammered out and he held up the two files for her to see. The intensity of Daisy’s glare was indescribable, and he probably would have run from it if not for the oddest feeling that if he did so, she would pounce on him and rip him to shreds.

“'Course he did,” sighed Daisy, making her way to Jon with Basira in tow. 

Basira glanced at the files adorned with Tim’s "filing labels" and grimaced, though it might have been a smile. “About a werewolf.”

“Yes.” Jon held the files out to them. “And two other people who have reported being stalked by werewolves have turned up dead in animal attacks. That’s not a coincidence.” The two detectives exchanged a look and each took a file from Jon. 

“You said you were tailing Royce, right?” Jon looked up to see Martin behind him, expression fixed. “And probably Robin Ambrose too. Are you sure you didn’t see any—”

“Any fucking _werewolves?"_ snapped Daisy, glaring at Martin with the same wolfish ferocity that she had volleyed at Jon. If the statement givers truly hadn’t been stalked by a werewolf, Jon could see how they could easily mistake Daisy for one. She was terrifying. This time, however, instead of finching back at her venom, Jon felt some protective instinct kick in. Maybe it was because of Martin, or maybe because he finally let himself believe a statement and was tired of Daisy putting it down. Maybe the lack of sleep was catching up with him again. Maybe all three, Jon didn’t really know, and he didn’t really care. He just set his jaw and crossed his arms.

“Yes!” he shouted. “Any fucking werewolves!”

Daisy froze, eyes wide, and expression unreadable. “Sims, right?” Her voice was cool. Slow. 

All of the righteous fury that had filled Jon a moment ago fled him in a second. It took all of his will power to not take a step back. “...Yes?”

“The only thing out there in those woods following around these murderers is me and Basira. Now, these men are monsters, Sims. Real, proper monsters.” Daisy cocked her head, eyebrow arched almost mockingly so. “The state we found Royce and Ambrose in?”

Basira put a warning hand on Daisy’s shoulder. “Daisy…”

Daisy ignored her, leaning down slightly to eye to eye with Jon. “Nothing compared to how we found Lionel Hyman. Now _that’s_ really close to being labeled an animal attack too. But it’s not. Just an old fashioned brutal murder.”

“Daisy, that’s enough.” Basira’s grip on Daisy’s shoulder firmed, and she tried to pull her back.

Daisy rolled her shoulder back, nudging off Basira’s hand. “Now something is killing them off, Sims. I don’t see why we should stop it.”

“But you’re the police!” cried Martin, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” snorted Daisy, sidling Martin with cruel joviality in her eyes. “Here to protect and serve. And the best way we can protect and serve _you_ is letting whoever is trying to kill Ewan Abbot finish the job.”

“Daisy! Stop.” Basira took a step forward so she was in front of Jon and Martin, though the gesture seemed less protective of them and more so she could give Daisy a long, hard look. “We’ve got work to do. Come on.”

Daisy tensed, then sagged. “Fine.” The pair of them turned back to the bullpen, and still clutched in their hands as they went, Jon realized with donning horror, were the statements. 

“Wait!” he cried, and they turned, each giving him an annoyed look.

“What?” groaned Basira, hand still on the bullpen gate.

“Our files,” explained Jon. “If you’re not going to help keep Abbot from getting murdered, can we at least have them so _we_ can save him?” They were the last of the werewolf statements or at least the last of the relevant ones. Without them, they’d be flying blind, and while he and Martin knew them fairly intimately by that point, Jon still felt safer with them in his possession. More in control.

Daisy gripped her folder tighter. “They’re our files now. Police evidence.” And then they were gone, the statements and the detectives both, with nothing but the swinging door of the bullpen and a sinking feeling in the pit of Jon’s stomach.

Martin sagged onto the reception desk, elbow propping him up. He smiled weakly at the receptionist, Elaina. “You said you get a lot of complaints?” Elaina just looked wearily at him.

The air of the car was stale and hot, hot enough it promised Jon that any piece of skin he rested on the peeling leather seats would stick, but that didn’t stop Jon from practically melting onto his with resignation.

Jon pushed his glasses out of the way so he could rub his tired eyes. “What do we do now?”

“I’m not sure,” said Martin, trying to smile at him and only succeeding in a grimace.

Jon bit his lip. “I can’t just let him die, Martin. I can’t let anyone else die because I couldn’t do anything.” Jon opened and closed his hands on what was left of the armrests and tried not to look directly at Martin. He had to tell him at some point, it wasn’t fair to Martin, and it was selfish of Jon to bottle it up, but—

“I know,” said Martin, though he did not know, not truly. Martin rested a gentle hand on Jon’s shoulder. It was reassuring. Grounding. And when Martin tried for a smile again it felt like everything was going to be alright. “Look, we’ll figure something out—”

“Martin, I…” He was going to tell him. He was going to tell him and then he wouldn’t think about Martin so much. The guilt and the sleep deprivation and the guilt and the guilt and the guilt were doing strange things to Jon’s head and he wanted them to _stop_. He looked at Martin again, at his reassuring smile and understanding eyes that couldn’t really understand but promised to try anyway. He looked at Martin again and his resolve crumpled like a paper ball. Jon sighed. “Let’s go to Abbot’s. I’m sure if we ask Tim and Sasha nicely they’ll commit some sort of crime to get us Abbot’s address.”

Martin laughed and lifted his hand off Jon's shoulder, completely oblivious of the pang of loss Jon felt as he did so as the calm and clarity it had afforded him went away so Martin could start the car. “And in the meantime, I should probably get some clothes on that I didn’t wear yesterday.”

“Probably.” Jon buckled himself in with the worryingly frayed seatbelt. “Do you live close?”

“Stockwell, so sort of.” Martin furrowed his brow. “How long does crime take?”

Jon snorted. “I have no idea. You’ll probably be fine.” The car coughed and spluttered to life in a way that was almost familiarly disconcerting, and the car made its rattling way to Stockwell.

At a red light, Martin rested an arm on the center console and sidled Jon with a wry grin. “I still can’t believe you have a secret cot you sleep on when you work late.”

“It only became a secret cot when Sasha told me to get rid of it,” huffed Jon, rolling his eyes.

“And you didn’t.”

“Clearly not.”

Martin cocked his head. “Do you use it a lot?”

“More than Sasha would probably like,” admitted Jon somewhat warily, beginning to feel like this conversation was trap.

Martin’s grin faded slightly. “That’s not healthy, Jon.”

Jon looked away. “It’s fine.”

“You really need to take care of yourself,” urged Martin, and Jon could feel his eyes on the back of his neck. He could almost see the expression on Martin’s face, eyes slightly drooping, brow slightly furrowed, lips slightly parted in concern. “I mean, last night you said you didn't drink anything!”

“I drink the tea you bring me,” Jon pointed out, venturing a look back at Martin, who was grimacing at him. 

“You can’t live on tea alone, though,” Martin said. He shook his head and let out a snort. “And that’s coming from _me_ , Jon.”

“You may have a point,” Jon admitted begrudgingly. “I’ll need to move the cot anyway now that Sasha knows where it is.”

Martin raised a hopeful eyebrow. “Move it back to your flat?”

“Maybe. If I can’t find a sufficient hiding spot.”

“Jon!” Martin swatted Jon’s arm without taking his eyes off the road. 

“Fine,” relented Jon, massaging his arm when Martin had hit it. “I’ll... _consider_ removing it from the Archives completely.”

“You know what? I’ll take it. That’s a win.” Martin pulled up next to a series of unremarkable flats and looked at Jon, cheeks tinged slightly pink as if embarrassed by the state of the place. “We’re here. Give me a minute, alright? My flat’s a mess.”

Jon just shrugged and unbuckled his seat belt. “It’s alright. Go on.” Martin gave him a curt nod and headed into one of the buildings. If Martin had been ashamed of the complex, Jon couldn’t say why. It was nice enough, albeit a little worn down in that way cities tended to get, with everything papered over in that greyness that settled over everything in London. And it wasn’t like Jon’s own block was any nicer. 

But that didn’t matter. Jon had better things to do than analyzing Martin’s idiosyncrasies. He needed to text Tim about figuring out Abbot’s location, though any conversation through text with Tim was a guaranteed migraine and a half. Tim’s use of grammar perplexed him, and more often than not Jon had to look up what words he was using. And he still wasn’t sure what a “poggers” was. 

The perplexity of poggers aside, Jon forced himself to pull up Tim’s contact and initiate what was sure to be an incomprehensible storm of gibberish, reminding himself every so often that this was to save a life. And as Tim’s replies came, he found weighing a life against the ever-increasing twitch in his left eye was boding worse and worse for Ewan Abbot’s chances of survival.

Jon heard the thunk of a closing door just as Tim sent a volley of blissfully relevant and final texts. He emerged from the car, leaning his elbows on the Chevy’s roof, and finishing the last of the texts. “I got the address from Tim, though I—” 

It was at the moment that Jon looked away from his phone that his brain finally gave out. There are, of course, serious side effects that come from prolonged text conversations with Timothy Stoker. The sheer amount of nonsense is far too much for any reasonable person’s brain to withstand for any length of time, and so it was as Jon looked up from his phone screen at Martin, (dressed in a crisp new pale blue button-up with a navy sweater Jon had never seen him in before pulled over it, Martin’s hair slightly on end from the static electricity, not that any of that was relevant to Jon’s brain short-circuiting of course) that the last vestiges of cohesion fled Jon’s brain as if the only thing keeping him together was the soft glow of a phone screen.

Martin frowned. “Jon?”

Jon blinked and realized with a start that he’d trailed off in the middle of his sentence and was staring slack-jawed at Martin. “Hm? Oh, sorry I lost my train of thought.”

“You were saying Tim sent you the address?” Martin gave him a concerned look.

Jon cleared his throat and tightened his grip on his phone, grounding himself. “Yes, yes it’s right here, though the speed at which he and Sasha got it worries me.”

“It’s probably best not to think about it.” Martin nodded to the car. “You ready to go?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be to warn a murderer that he’s about to be eaten by a werewolf,” sighed Jon.

Martin laughed at that and shook his head. “When you put it like that it’s a real wonder the police didn’t believe us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was at this point where I realized that it made no logical sense for Martin to own a car in a city, which I should know because I live a stone's throw from one, but at that point I was like fuck it so here we are. I'm learning how to drive so this is how I cope: projection.
> 
> Next Week: Martin throws a battery, Jon waits for the pain to start, Daisy is SCARY, and Basira...does not have a good time.


	4. Partners in Crime Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Martin I...you’re my partner. I can’t lose you, not when there’s something I can do to save you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Listening: _You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman,_ Aretha Franklin  
> For: Angsty Daisira Vibes
> 
> CW//
> 
> Violence  
> Gun usage  
> Death  
> Blood  
> Fear of death  
> The werewolf transformation is kind of graphic, but like canon typically so

It was dark by the time the Chevy rolled to a stop where Tim and Sasha had said Abbot would be, and it was made darker still by the thick of trees surrounding them. The only light came from the pale glow of the moon and the lights of the car, and even then they didn’t illuminate anything. The lights just shone bright and hot, catching the occasional silhouette of a moth when one flitted by. No matter their uselessness, Jon noted Martin seemed very reluctant to let the lights go out as he turned off the car.

“I think we’re here,” Martin said, glancing around nervously. “It definitely seems like the sort of place a murderer would live.”

Jon knew what he meant. They were quite a way out of London and it looked like they had driven into an American horror movie. It was unnerving. No, that wasn’t right. As much as he hated to use the word, the best way to describe it was _spooky._ “You still have those torches, right?”

“And I should have some spare batteries in the glove box,” nodded Martin. Jon felt around the car dash until he found a handle and pulled. From there he pulled a small Zip-loc bag of batteries. “Could I have a few?” 

Pocketing a couple, Jon handed the rest of the bag to Martin. “They’re your batteries,” he reminded Martin, who blushed. Jon sighed and nodded at the house whose silhouette somehow seemed starker than that of the surrounding trees. “Ready?”

“Yeah, Just—” Martin took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah.” 

The trek from where Martin had parked to the house was the longest short walk of Jon’s life, and from it was the longest of Martin's too based on Martin’s constant glancing around and the look of fearful worry Jon saw whenever the torchlight caught his face. 

“Are you alright?” Jon asked after he’d jumped nearly half a foot in the air after a branch had snapped.

Martin smiled unconvincingly. “I’m fine. It’s just spoo—creepy here.”

Jon fought a fond smile at Martin catching the word before he used it. “Quite.” 

They reached the door, and Jon hesitated only briefly before knocking on the door. 

In an instant, the door was yanked violently open to reveal the broadest man Jon had ever seen. Some men looked like they'd been sculpted from marble, but Ewan Abbot looked sculpted from concrete: sturdy and firm, and twice as cold and unyielding. Despite only being taller than Jon, he seemed to glower down at the two of them. “Can I help you?”

Jon nervously adjusted his glasses, mostly to have something to do with his hands. “Actually Mr. Abbot, we’re here to help you.”

Abbot sighed. “Is this some sort of Missionary thing? Saving me with Jesus and all that nonsense?”

“I can assure you we are not missionaries. We’re from the Magnus Institute.”

“We’re here about the werewolf,” chimed in Martin. “It’s...it’s going to strike soon. At that Abbot blanched. He looked around at the dark of the woods with some of the most acute fear Jon had ever seen on someone’s face, especially someone who could so clearly handle themself. 

Abbot opened the door wider, letting the light from inside spill out in a golden wave, and gestured emphatically at them. “I…come in.” 

The home of Ewan Abbot looked like a hunter’s lodge threw up on an antique store. Wood-paneled walls, carpeted floors, roughly hewn tables covered in doilies, deer heads resting above uncomfortable looking lavender armchairs. Every time you turned your head, there was something new and garish to see. Jon wished he had more time to take the whole place in, maybe to study it and write a paper on what led someone to create such a place, but Abbot had started talking. With great effort, Jon forced himself to focus on his words.

“When my Robin…” Abbot was saying, pacing the length of a nearby poorly stained table, worrying his hands, “I had my suspicions, and then Des too but...”

“Mr. Abbot, are you alright?” interrupted Jon.

Abbot whirled on him. “What do you fucking think? I’m a dead man walking, and if you stick around, you two will be as well.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Martin assured him. “We’re here to help.”

“How do you think you’re going to help, hm?” Abbot demanded. “Des was the most terrifying person I’ve ever met. My Robin he...he was a force of nature too when he wanted to be. And now they’re dead. Ripped to shreds like they were made of paper. What can you do?” Abbot let out a bark of bitter laughter. “Have either of you even killed a person before?”

Martin took a step back, almost affronted. “What? No!”

Jon looked down, looked away, looked everywhere but at Martin. He couldn’t look at Martin right now. He should have had more time. “Yes,” he said in barely a whisper.

“Jon?” Martin’s bow knitted in confusion. “What?”

Jon looked up and hoped he looked as apologetic as he felt. “I...I was going to tell you after the case, really I—”

“Jon, who did you kill?”

“Look, Martin, I…” Jon ran a hand through his hair. “Michael wasn’t going to let you out. And I couldn’t just let you die, I couldn't leave you in there, in that place. So I told Michael to let you out. Then I demanded, and I begged, and when that didn’t work I offered myself. I told him to take me instead of you.”

“You _what?_ ”

“But he said no,” Jon continued, trying to ignore the look on Martin’s face. “He wouldn’t let me take your place, but he...he said he’d take someone else. ‘A meal for a meal.’”

Martin’s face fell as realization dawned on him. “Helen Richardson.”

Jon nodded slowly. “Yes. I didn’t know then who he was going to take but I believe so.” Martin was quiet, face inscrutable. He hated Jon, of course he did. _Jon_ would hate Jon if he was in Martin's place. He hated himself enough now. He wished Martin didn’t though. And he wished that inscrutable look of what Jon could only guess was loathing and disgust didn’t hurt so much.

Abbot cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That’s all well and good, but that’s not the type of murder I was talking about. I’m talking about a weapon in hand watching the life bleed out of someone. And I take it neither of you has done that sort of thing.” Jon and Martin shook their heads. “Of course not. Then I don’t see what use you two will be. You should leave before it gets here.”

“We're not going anywhere," said Jon, tearing his eyes away from Martin and his unreadability. "Three heads are better than one. We stand more of a chance of getting you out of here alive if there are more of us than there are of it.”

“It won’t matter.”

“But it might,” Jon urged. “And I can’t let anyone else die.”

Abbot studied the pair of them for a moment. “You two really won’t go?” There was a resolute beat. “Fine. I don’t suppose either of you came with a plan?” Another beat, far more awkward. Abbot laughed again, and just as bitterly as before. “Excellent.”

Jon paused, and then took a step forward. “One of us should stay inside with Abbot—”

“Ewan, please,” Abbot said, holding a hand up. “If you insist on us dying together, we might as well be on a first-name basis.”

Martin smiled at Ewan and held out a hand he didn’t take. “Martin.”

Jon didn’t extend a hand or a smile. “Jon.”

“I kind of picked up on that while you were arguing,” said Ewan, an inkling of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Jon clapped his hands together. “Right. Well, like I was saying, one of us should probably stay inside with _Ewan_ while the other keeps watch.”

“What happened to safety in numbers?” argued Ewan. 

“The werewolf isn’t hunting me or Martin, it’s hunting you. I doubt it will try and attack either of us unprovoked.” Jon took a deep breath before continuing, making extra sure not to look at Martin. “Even still, the person keeping watch will be in a lot of danger, and that’s why it’ll be me.”

“What?” Martin exclaimed at once. “No! Jon! Don't be ridiculous.”

Jon kept his head down. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Martin snapped. “You’re throwing your life away for what? Some idiotic recompense? You’re not a killer Jon, and you certainly don’t deserve to die.” 

“That’s not what this is!” shouted Jon, finally meeting Martin’s gaze.

“What is it then?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt, Martin!”

Martin’s face sagged. “And you think I don’t want the same for you?” 

Jon bit his lip. “I…” They were quiet a moment before the silence was broken by a small chuckle from Ewan.

“What?” snapped Jon, glaring at him.

“Oh, nothing,” said Ewan, waving his hand at him. “Just memories. Go back to your lover's quarrel.”

“It’s not—” Jon sighed and turned his head back to Martin. “Martin I...you’re my partner. I can’t lose you, not when there’s something I can do to save you.”

“You’re not going to lose me, Jon,” breathed Martin, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder. When had they gotten close enough to each item to touch? Jon wasn’t complaining. A touch from Martin was always grounding. “And as for stopping me from getting hurt, we’re still fighting a werewolf. We’re going to get a little hurt no matter what we do. I’ll go outside.”

“Martin!”

“I’m not arguing this with you, Jon,” said Martin, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “We’re in danger either way, but I’m not going to let you kill yourself for me.”

Jon glared up at Martin. Martin was being stupid, he had to know that. Jon was...he was fine. Expendable. There were a million know—it—all pricks in the word, but not nearly enough people like Martin, kind and caring and understanding and soft. For Christ’s sake, he’d just learned Jon was a murderer and he was willing to put his life on the line for him anyway. Because he was good, so damn good. And he was going to be alright. He had to be. Jon trusted him to be, and that would have to be enough. 

“Alright,” he said finally. “Be safe.”

Martin squeezed his shoulder again. “I will. You better be too.”

* * *

You could cut the tension in Ewan Abbot’s living room with a safety pin. The occupants, armed if you accept a loose interpretation of the word, fidgeted nervously and wired so tight it seemed as though they would snap at any moment.

“It’s a good thing he’s not back yet, right?” asked Jon, clutching his axe in a white-knuckle grip. It was too heavy for him to properly swing even if he knew how to properly wield an axe, which he unsurprisingly did not. Even still, the weight was a comfort. A small one, but a comfort nonetheless. Jon had not looked away from the door for more than a minute since Martin’s departure.

Ewan rolled his eyes. “It means the werewolf’s not here, and that we’re safe for now, so yes.” The fire poker he wielded was heavy too, but it was clear he didn’t feel it. He held it loosely in his massive calloused hands with almost an air of casualness to him, though he kept running his thumb up and down it in uneasy anticipation.

“Right,” agreed Jon. “Of course.” He didn't look away from the door.

“He’s going to be fine. Probably. As fine as any of us are going to be.” Ewan snorted. “I’d say relax but I don’t think this is a situation where that’s viable.”

“No, I suppose not.” There was a knock at the door. Jon made his way to the door so slowly he might as well have been going backwards, axe clutched so tightly it could nearly have been clipping through his palm. The door handle was ice in his clammy hands. Jon opened the door to reveal someone standing in the doorway who was very clearly not Martin. Vaguely familiar yes, but most certainly not Martin. In an instant, working on pure nervous instinct, Jon hoisted his axe, arms trembling under the weight and—

“Wait!” Jon blinked. The person who was not Martin was holding up a hand and had said something. The person, Jon realized, was someone he recognized. 

He lowered the axe shakily and took a step back, letting the woman in the doorway in. “Basira, right? I thought you weren't coming”

Basira blinked too and then nodded slowly. “You’re...Sims. Jon, the—the Ghostbuster.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you doing here?”

Jon nodded over to Ewan, hands still dead gripping the axe handle. “Abbot’s life is in danger. And since your partner so roundly refused to help us keep him safe, we’re here.”

“We?”

“Martin’s here too.”

Basira paled. “You two shouldn’t be here. She’ll be getting here any second—”

“Who’s she?” Ewan had made his way over the pair of them and glared at Basira from over Jon’s shoulder.

Basira didn’t flinch. “Daisy.”

Jon adjusted his grip on the axe nervously. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It very much is not. You all need to leave right now—”

More knocking, followed by a muffled voice. “Jon? Jon are you there?”

Jon was already at the door by the second knock and flung open the door with a relieved smile. “Martin!”

Martin returned the expression. “Jon you’re never going to believe who I found out here—” 

Daisy pushed past the two of them into the house. She looked at Ewan and smiled, eyes glinting. Her eyes looked sharper in the lamplight, her pupils like slits. “Found you,” she growled, voice strange and guttural.

Basira’s face fell, and she looked at Jon and Martin, face resolute and worried. “Get Abbot and get out, _now!”_

Martin furrowed his brow. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Jon said.

“Is someone going to explain why the fuck there are two cops in my house?” demanded Ewan, arms crossed over his chest and fire poker resting on his shoulder.

“They’re here to protect you, right?” Martin didn’t look entirely sure.

“I think so...Basira?” Jon looked at Basira for confirmation. “Right?”

Basira let out an exasperated huff and cocked her gun. “I’m trying to, get out!”

“This is my house!” Ewan reminded her, pointing at her accusatory with the fire poker.

Basira wheeled on him.“And it’ll be your death too if you don’t fucking listen to me!” 

“Why do we need to leave?” Jon asked.

It was then Daisy let out a noise. 

It did not sound like a good noise.

She rolled her neck to a chorus of pops and cracks. The sound moved down her back and limbs, and they shifted and changed and moved in ways they definitely should not have. Her body lengthened and grew, hair covering her arms and back and face, mouth stretching and teeth sharpening. She did not scream, but from the look in her eyes, it was clear that she very much wanted to. The creature before them—the werewolf— _Daisy —_turned its head towards the other four occupants of Ewan Abbot’s living room. She looked at them, pain and fear and hate in her eyes. 

Through warping and shifting lips she spoke, forcing sounds that her new voicebox struggled to make, out of her. She managed a single word, voice a hoarse and croaking shell of what it had been before.

“Run.”

And then she charged forwards. Basira sprung into action first, pulling the person closest to her, Martin, out of the way. Jon and Ewan were not nearly as quick or lucky. If Jon had been afraid of Daisy before then here, hairy, hulking, and charging right at him with death in every snarl that slipped its way past her far too sharp and numerous teeth, he was terrified beyond belief. But he did not run. How he managed to move forward, to swing the axe at the charging beast, to force its face into the side of her, he did not know. He just knew that as he did so his axe slid from his lithe fingers and that Daisy was right in front of him. Slowly, a growl building from deep in her chest and climbing up her throat, she looked down at him, and in her eyes, Jon could see nothing but rage.

Jon’s face fell. “Oh, shit!”

Daisy roared and moved so fast he felt the slice of her claw and the hot blood bubbling from his neck before he saw her hand move. Jon let out his own roar of pain and stumbled back, holding the cut on his neck in a vain attempt to reduce the bleeding with one hand and using the other to shove Ewan out of the way, managing a _“Go!"_ before Daisy pinned him to the ground. 

They say then the moment before you die you see your life flash before your eyes. They are wrong. Jon didn’t see his life flash before his eyes. No, as Daisy pressed the full weight of her bulk down onto his chest, jaws opening wide, ready to tear him open, Jon saw statements. Three statements about people who this woman, this thing, this honest to God _werewolf_ had killed. The detail of the dismemberment. The amount of pain they must have been in. Jon really wished his life had flashed before his eyes. At least there would have been some small comfort before jaws raked his stomach open and claws made streamers of his entrails. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoped Martin wasn’t watching, and waited for the pain to start.

...and waited for the pain to start.

And waited for the pain to start?

Jon opened his eyes to see Daisy’s head turned away from him and pointed at Martin, arm outstretched and shaking like a leaf. A battery rolled up against Jon’s hand. 

_Oh Martin_ , though Jon, fondly, miserably. _Oh, Martin you idiot_.

Daisy rose from Jon tortuously, releasing claws from his clothing and flesh and starting towards Martin. Jon tried to grab her leg, arm, paw, whatever it was that was still near him in some desperate attempt to stop her, but the movement was painful and slow, and Daisy didn’t even notice. 

Martin’s face was a mask of fear. He stumbled backwards trying to get out of the way as Daisy quickly closed the distance from where Jon lay to the others. Martin tore his eyes from Daisy only briefly, letting himself stare for a moment at Jon. The look Martin gave him was...hopeful. Like he was glad at least Jon wasn’t going to be ripped to ribbons. As Daisy reached Martin, her claws raised and mouth twisted in a literal wolf’s grin, Jon left out a strangled cry.

It was completely drowned out as the sound of a gunshot filled the room.

Slowly Daisy lifted a claw to her stomach. She stumbled back, letting out an animalistic whine as she went and revealing Basira. Basira, face devoid of any emotion, Basira with her gun still poised to fire again, Basira stood by the door and an unharmed Martin and Ewan.

“Basira…”

The word was misshapen and alien in the air, and with a start, Jon realized that it was Daisy that had spoken. 

Basira’s neutral expression faltered. “Daisy, stop. They didn’t—they didn’t do anything. You can’t keep doing this!” Gradually, almost imperceptibly, Martin made his way over to Jon. With deft and gentle hands he lifted Jon to his feet and helped him just as slowly make his way back over to the door.

With a voice box not made for speech and a tongue not meant for words and lips not meant to move in such a way, Daisy choked out words. “What….are...you...doing...Basira…” Jon and Martin shuffled a little closer to the door.

Basira lowered her gun just a little. “I’m asking you to stop. I...you shouldn’t be doing this.”

“They...hurt...people…” Daisy whimpered. “They...kill...people…”

Shaking her head, Basira took a step forward. “Not the two idiots from the Institute. And Daisy, so do you. So—so do I.”

“Different…” They were almost at the door now. Jon could feel the cold breeze drifting through where the door stood slightly ajar. Ewan extended a cautious hand towards them, beckoning them on.

“No, it’s not,” Basira was saying. “Not when it’s like this! Maybe not even when it’s followed by forms. I can’t let you do this, Daisy. Not anymore. Don’t make me stop you.”

“Basira…”

“Just come back to me, alright?” Basira pleaded, taking another step forward. She removed a hand for the gun and held it out to her bestial partner. “We can...we can quit and go away just the two of us. No more hunting. No more death. You just need to stop this. Stop all of this and come back to me, Daisy.” 

They were at the door. Ewan nudged the door open a little more, just enough that they would fit through and leave the house to the safety of the woods. The creak of the door was loud and long. Daisy’s ears flicked and her head snapped away from Basira and towards them. A snarl built in her body as she rose, and lunged - 

Another gunshot and Daisy was crumpled on the floor. The werewolf curled in on itself, or no, that wasn’t right. She was shrinking, her limbs shortening, her claws becoming hands. And Daisy was...Daisy again. Small and shuddering in a fast-growing pool of hair and blood, but human. Herself.

Basira’s still smoking gun clattered to the ground as she rushed to her partner’s side. She lifted Daisy into her arms and held her close.

“Basira…” Daisy’s voice was ragged, but not from the restrictions of a lupine body unable to form human words. She put a hand to Basira’s cheek.

“Daisy, I’m sorry—”

“Were you...did you really mean it?” Daisy interrupted. “Running away with me?”

“Yes you moron, just don’t do anything, you’re going to be fine if I can just—"

Daisy smiled dolefully up at her. “Basira.”

“You’re not going to die,” Basira told her, holding her even tighter as if she just clutched her closer everything would be alright. “I refuse to let you die!”

“Basira. It’s alright. Everything is going to be alright.” Her thumb gently traced the defined curve of her partner’s jawline. “ It always is when you’re here.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Only because you like ridiculous.” Basira let out a laugh, but it came out a sob. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Stopping me. I...you were right. You’re always right, I should really stop being surprised.” Daisy’s smile faded. “And for everything else. For being here. For always being here. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, you know?”

Basira touched her forehead to Daisy’s. “I know, I know.” It was barely a whisper.

Daisy said something to Basira, but Jon couldn't hear. It was soft, and it was personal, and it was not for him to hear. Daisy smiled, weakly, affectionately, lovingly. She stroked Basira’s jaw again, leaving a hint of red against the umber of Basira’s skin as her thumb moved. And then she was still.

Basira froze. “Daisy?” she asked. “Daisy, stay with me. Daisy? Please...I—” Her voice caught as a single sob escaped her lips. And then she was silent too. Just silent and crumpled on the floor, holding her partner’s body very, very tightly.

* * *

Jon supposed that the night shift of cafes must be very weird, as no one in the cafe Jon and Martin found themselves in seemed at all concerned by the two bloody and dazed men ignoring their long cold drinks, silently staring at nothing. Jon reached a hand to his neck to itch the bandage stuck to it and caught himself. If he messed with it too much Martin was going to make him go back to the hospital and it had been hard enough explaining what had happened to him the first time. He contented himself by idly tapping the lip of his abandoned mug of tea.

And so they sat in silence some more. At some point, Martin wordlessly pulled off his sweater and offered it to Jon, who gave it a quizzical look. 

“What are you doing?”

Martin squinted at him. “Jon, you’re covered in blood and there’s a giant wolf print on your sweater.”

Jon looked down at the ruins of his clothing. “Oh. I...you’re right.” He took Martin's sweater and shrugged it on. He was swimming in it.

“You look very dashing,” said Martin, teasingly.

Jon snorted. “What, did wolf prints and blood not do it for you?”

“I didn’t say that.” They laughed quietly for a moment before Jon winced and put a hand to his neck. Martin sighed. “What do we do now?”

“Fill in Sasha and Tim, I suppose,” shrugged Jon.

“After that.”

“I’m not sure. We’ll figure it out.” 

They were taciturn again, but comfortably so. There was nothing to say. Or, there was a great deal to say and no way of going about and saying it. There were simply too many emotions and thoughts and wonders and lamentations and hopes and feelings and so many words to describe them all. Where would you begin? Nowhere. They were quiet and remained that way for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm leaning into the fact that this is just the X-Files by deciding that everything is filmed in Vancouver. Right. Anyway, yes this is early but I'm not going to have internet until Sunday because Thanksgiving reasons so if idk maybe you wanted to let me come back to an inbox of comments saying literally anything to raise my spirits, that'd be funky fresh I guess. Ya girl didn't get much sleep last night, folks! Can you tell?  
> Next week: Jon isn't _hiding,_ Martin is loathed, Sasha makes some new friends, and I use my last saved up chapter.


	5. Cut Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon snorted. “What part of all this would appeal to you as a boyfriend?” he asked, taking a step back from the railing and gesturing to himself.  
> Martin looked like a firetruck in the sunlight. He was practically glowing red, like heated metal. “I...I don’t know." Martin brushed a hair behind his ear and looked down with a faraway smile. “You’re nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Listening: _Gives You Hell,_ All American Rejects  
> For: You All Often Forget the Jon and Georgie Did Not Part on Good Terms Vibes
> 
> CW//
> 
> Mild eye horror, but it's really mild and also straight from canon

Jon was lucky.

Well, no, that was categorically untrue, and if nothing else the fact that _they_ were here at all was proof enough that Jon was the single unluckiest human being alive. But at least when _they_ had arrived, Jon had been out of sight, hidden in the shadows of catwalks, free to freeze and crouch down and watch them parade around the Archives like a testament to Jon’s poor luck, unseen. 

It was yet another time Jon was happy with his decision to move his cot up to the catwalks. The Archive catwalks were expansive and complex, an elaborate twisting maze of wrought iron paths and railing with occasional platforms interspersed between them. Best of all, no one ever went up there. It increased the risk of spiders for sure, but it also promised that the platform Jon had set up by one of the rickety ladders was safe from discovery. And it meant that Jon could see the albeit infrequent comings and going of guests to the Archives before they could see him, something he was increasingly thankful for as he watched _them_ chat with Sasha.

Jon didn’t recognize the shorter woman _she_ was with, with her tawny hair streaked with turquoise and numerous piercings that glinted up at Jon as she laughed at whatever joke Sasha had told, but Jon definitely recognized _her_. _She_ looked the same, as improbable as it was. In the interim years since everything had gone down Jon had grown to look almost nice. More respectable. He had grey in his hair, and his hair was cut far shorter than it had ever been at Uni. But _her_? She still had the same waist-long dreads that still framed her regal cheekbones that same way that demanded your attention. She still dressed the same, casual tee shirt with slightly ripped jeans, and even from the distance, Jon could see the same self-sure smile on her lips. _How did she do that_ , Jon had always wondered. _How did she always look so confident in everything she did?_

Jon was so caught up in his musings that he didn’t hear the clanging of footsteps on metal until Martin called out to him.

“Jon?” Jon turned to see a wide, relieved grin break across Martin’s face. “There you are. Christ, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Did you see who we have down there?” he asked excitedly as he made his way over to Jon. “That’s Georgie Barker and Melanie King! You know, from _What the Ghost_ and _Ghost Hunt UK?”_

“Yes, I am aware,” sighed Jon, wishing he could share Martin’s enthusiasm. “I, however, thought that they held our Institute in a rather low regard and wouldn’t deign to come here.”

Martin stopped next to him and leaned on the only slightly rusted guard rail. “I take it you’re not a fan then.”

Jon shook his head. “No more a fan than they are of me.”

“Is that why you’re up here then?” Martin asked, failing to mask the amusement in his voice. “You’re hiding?”

“I’m not _hiding_ ,” corrected Jon. “I’m not a child. I’m...avoiding.”

Martin bit his lip to batter down the grin threatening to completely overtake his face. “Avoiding.”

“Yes, avoiding,” snapped Jon. “There are some things I’d rather not deal with at nine in the morning. Or at all.”

Martin cocked his head at him. “What, did you insult their ghost shows with your stupid skepticism thing?”

“I’ve been getting better at the skepticism thing,” muttered Jon.

“I know. I’m proud of you.”

There was a funny feeling in Jon’s chest. Probably vertigo. He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the trio of women now circled around Georgie’s phone. “Thank you. But it’s not that. Georgie...Christ.” Jon rubbed his eyes tiredly, partially so he wouldn’t have to see Martin’s expression. “Georgie and I dated in Uni.”

“Really?” Martin’s grin was audible. Because of course it was.

“Yes.” Jon fixed his glasses and Martin with a glare. “You’d better not breathe a word of this to Tim or he’ll be insufferable.”

Martin held his hands up. “I won’t, I won’t. Just...it _really_ must not have ended well.”

Jon laughed and leaned onto the railing too. “No. There was a fight. Well, a series of them. I said some things, she said some things.”

Martin’s grin faltered. “Was it...was it about the ace thing?”

Jon snorted. “No, she was fine with that. Her problem was with my—Christ how did she phrase it...my emotional constipation.”

“Emotional constipation?” The laugh that bubbled out of Martin was loud enough that Jon was sure it was going to alert the people below of their whereabouts, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Among other things, yes.”

Martin smirked at him. “So you’re hiding from her.”

“Avoiding.”

“So you’re _avoiding_ her.”

“I’m certainly trying to.”

“Are you going to do this any time an ex of yours comes to make a statement?” Martin asked, jokingly, though with an odd intonation Jon couldn’t quite figure out.

Jon shook his head and let out a noise that might have been a laugh. “No. Unless my grade school boyfriend comes all the way from Bournemouth to exact revenge for a particularly embarrassing school dance, I don’t think we’ll have to deal with this situation again.”

Martin did actually laugh at that, sounding oddly relieved. “Do I even want to ask about the dance?”

“No, you do not.” Jon ran a hand through his hair. “What about you? Any exes I should worry about?”

“Probably not,” Martin shrugged sadly. “Honestly, I don’t think I made a big enough impact on anyone for them to swear a blood feud on me.”

“Georgie didn’t ‘swear a blood feud,’” pointed Jon.

“And yet you’re still hiding on the catwalks.”

“You...may have a point.” Jon nudged Martin with his elbow in what he hoped was an at least semi-reassuring manner. “And I’m sure you’ve got your own coalition of blood feuds hidden away somewhere. I can’t imagine you not making an impact on someone.” For some reason, Martin blushed at that and looked down at the desks below them. “Though maybe not blood feuds. You’re too damn pleasant.”

Martin looked back at him, with an attempt at a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Try not to sound so annoyed about it.”

“I reserve my right to be annoyed at your pleasantness,” Jon groused. “Your exes have probably got a whole shovel talk prepared for anyone who wants to date you demanding your propper treatment. Mine would probably warn you away. ‘Get out while you still can’ and all that.” 

Martin still looked bizarrely flustered. “I’m sure you’re not all that bad.”

Jon snorted. “What part of all this would appeal to you as a boyfriend?” he asked, taking a step back from the railing and gesturing to himself.

Martin looked like a firetruck in the sunlight. He was practically glowing red, like heated metal. “I...I don’t know." Martin brushed a hair behind his ear and looked down with a faraway smile. “You’re nice.”

“Nice.” Jon raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Martin insisted, looking back at him, eyes gleaming. “You care about people, though you don’t really know how to show it most of the time.”

Jon scoffed. “That’s an understatement.”

Martin just ignored him. “And you’re smart and clever. You’re so passionate about the randomest things, and whenever you get into the flow you get this frankly adorable look on your face—”

“Adorable?” spluttered Jon, expression a combination of confusion and horror.

Martin’s blush deepened. “Some would say adorable, yes.”

“I am not, nor have I ever been, _adorable,_ ” he insisted.

“You didn’t see yourself go on an hour-long rant about emulsifiers.”

Jon sank back down onto the railing. “It...wasn’t an hour.”

“Sasha timed it, and it was just about.” Martin grinned at him. “And your contronym rant was longer.

“They don’t make any sense, Martin!” Jon exclaimed, annoyance in his voice. “They’re utterly redundant.” He squinted at Martin. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” asked Martin innocently. Like he didn’t know, the bastard.

“Like I’m making an adorable face.”

“But you are!” Martin protested. “Well, not so much anymore. Now you just look kind of pissed off.”

“That’s because I frequently am,” Jon grumbled. “Another reason I make a truly awful romantic partner.”

“It’s endearing.”

Jon gestured down at Georgie, who was listening to Sasha and Melanie talk excitedly about something with a barely contained giggle. “There’s someone down there who would disagree.”

“She’ll have to take it up with me then.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Lord.”

“Same with Bournemouth boy if he comes over here with a grudge,” declared Martin.

Jon rolled his eyes again, but a smile tugged at his lips. “My white knight. Things like this are how I know you made an impact on your partners. If you’re willing to fight the disgruntled exes of _me_ of all people, one can only imagine what you’d do for someone you actually like.”

Martin looked affronted, like the notion he didn’t like Jon was a stain on his reputation. “I like you.”

“I meant like romantically,” Jon corrected, which elicited a weird laugh from Martin for whatever reason. “What?”

Martin shook his head dismissively. “Nothing. I think Melanie and Georgie are heading out.” Jon glanced down again to see Georgie and Melanie hugging Sasha goodbye. “You think it’s safe now?”

Jon watched them until the heavy door to the Archives clicked loudly into place behind them. Jon took his first free breath since he’d seen them enter and nodded at Martin, relieved. “Yes. We should be alright now.” 

Acting on muscle memory, Jon led them to the closest ladder down. It wasn’t until Martin’s disappointed sigh that he realized his mistake. Jon’s shoulders shot up as he tensed at the sight of his cot and few scattered clothes, but Martin’s just sank down.

He didn’t even look over to Jon, but his disappointment was palpable. “Jesus, Jon.”

* * *

Jon hated Martin. Why had he let himself forget that? What, because he was nice? Because he spent the night working with him? Because he made Jon feel safe and happy and appreciated? It was embarrassing. That wasn’t Jon. Jon was a misanthrope, a bastard, a prick, an asshole, he was, in short, not the sort of person who should be befriending people like Martin. People like Jon hated people like Martin. 

Jon clutched the lockpick in his bony fingers tighter as he made his way towards the Archives. Suspended. For four goddamn weeks. And for what, diligence? Putting time and effort into his work? God forbid any of his co-workers show the same initiative. Sasha made him remove his sleep effects, took his key, and told him in a stern voice that she’d better not see him back in the Archives until his suspension was over. She’d told him to take a break, to get a hobby, make a fucking friend. But she underestimated his resolve. If he couldn’t get to his files the old-fashioned way, that was fine. Inconvenient, but fine. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter, he was going to get into the Archives, and he was going to get his file, and by the time he got back from his suspension he was going to have the damn von Closen case solved. 

He crested the hill before the Archives’ side entrance; a creaking ancient thing that was more rust than iron and posed far more of a threat to Jon’s ability to get in than the padlock fixed to it. Jon’s calves screamed as he walked, but he ignored them. He had work to do. Even now he could see the door in all of its red-brown glory, and—

And the two women sitting in front of it, fiddling with the lock. The shorter one, Melanie, was crouched down in front of the door with something in her hand that looked like a bent out of shape bobby pin. And next to her, tilting her phone so Melanie could see the video she was playing on it, was Georgie. Jon froze where he stood. Should he bolt? He very much wanted to, and despite the protests from his legs, he could probably sprint away if he needed to. But then again, there was the door and his file. So few of the cases in the Archives were so misfiled and intersected so perfectly with Jon’s interests than of #8163103. The supernatural elements, the historical implications, the fact it was written as a letter to _Jonah Magnus_ _himself_...no file had ever piqued Jon’s interest like this one. And sure it would be hard to look into as it was two hundred years old, but what was a Masters in history and five years in research even _for_ if not this?

Jon was still mulling over his course of action when Georgie adjusted her weight and idly flicked her eyes around, looking at nothing in particular until her eyes landed on him, still frozen in place.

Georgie straightened and furrowed her brows at him. “Jon? What are you doing here?”

Arduously, Jon forced himself to walk towards her and speak. “I...I might ask you the same thing, Georgie,” he managed.

“You first.”

Jon folded his arms and scowled. “I _work_ here. And you?”

Georgie folded her arms too, though she didn’t need to scowl at him; she was so tall any set expression pointed down at him did the trick. “The Archivist gave us permission to use the library.”

“And that’s why you’re fiddling with the lock to the _Archives_?” Jon asked, nodding at Melanie, surprised to have any sort of upper hand in this reunion.

Melanie didn’t even bother to look up from what she was doing. “Is this not the main entrance?” she asked dryly.

Jon actually sort of laughed at that. “Mind telling me why you’re trying to break into Archives?”

“Mind telling me why you’re doing the same?” Georgie shot back. Jon shoved the lockpick in his hand behind his back.

“I left my keys in the office,” said Jon, not technically lying. Sasha had made him leave them on his desk and watched him leave, making sure he didn’t try and grab them or slip them into his pocket as he went. There was a beat while Jon and Georgie scrutinized each other, air thick with suspicion and nerves, punctuated occasionally by a loud and colorful swear from Melanie, still fiddling with the lock.

“I take it neither of us are here for the reason we said we were, then?” Jon said finally.

Georgie let out a deep breath and shook her head. “No. We’re...well it’s sort of complicated. Do you really work here?”

“Yes, but I’ve been suspended for working too hard.”

Melanie glared at the lock, though the expression’s intended target was clear even as she jiggled the lock rather ferociously. “Liar.”

Georgie leaned into her and laughed. “No, actually that tracks. Total workaholic.” She glanced up at Jon. “You worked through our anniversary one year if I remember.”

“I...did do that, didn’t I?” A pained expression crept onto Jon’s face. “Sorry.”

Georgie waved his apology away. “It’s been years.”

“Still.”

“Really, Jon, I don’t care. It's not like I can break up with you again.” She raised an eyebrow and shot him a droll grin. “So you work at the Magnus Institute now?”

He matched her grin sardonically. “So you run a podcast now?”

That seemed to surprise her. “How do you know about _What the Ghost?_ ”

“Martin’s a fan,” he explained, for a moment forgetting that he hated him and letting his voice go fonder and softer than it should have been.

Georgie’s grin widened. “Who’s Martin?”

“He’s my...he’s a friend,” muttered Jon. “I work with him.”

"That doesn't sound like the Jon I know," laughed Georgie teasingly. "Making friends? Very out of character."

"I seem to remember befriending _you_ well enough," Jon retorted.

Georgie shook her head. _"I_ befriended you, Jon. You just went along with it."

"That's not entirely dissimilar to what happened with Martin," Jon admitted, annoyed. As far as he was concerned, that was how friendships worked; someone wore you down until you stopped struggling. It’s how friendship worked for Jon at least.

Melanie dropped the warped bobby pin onto the ground dramatically and nodded to the still firmly locked padlock disdainfully. “Do you think he could let us in?”

“Maybe,” Jon said. “Depends on what you’re doing here.”

Georgie and Melanie exchanged a look. Then slowly, Georgie asked him, “Have you ever heard of Johann von Württemberg?”

“He’s the alleged bastard of Ulrich the first if I’m not mistaken.” Melanie gawked at him in surprise. “He’s come up in a statement I’m researching.”

“Did that statement mention that he hung around witches or that his tomb was cursed?” Melanie shot back.

“Well it certainly didn’t mention anything about _witches_ , but his mausoleum was...prominently featured.” Jon crossed his arms. “It was also in the Black Forest, which is decidedly not in our Archives.”

“But we think what was inside of it is here,” explained Georgie.

Jon snorted. “As far as I’m aware there isn’t a corpse in the Institute, 800-year-old or otherwise.”

“We’re not talking about his body,” snapped Melanie. “We’re talking about his library.”

Jon’s eyes widened and his face fell. “You’re looking for books.”

“Yeah, but they aren’t in your library, so we were thinking they might be stored in your Archive or something because they’re so old—”

“You don’t understand, Georgie, they’re _books_ ,” Jon said, cutting her off. “Which means they’re probably Leitners if they’re related to any sort of horror story.”

Georgie looked blankly at him. “And?”

“Leitners are...dangerous.” He absently began to worry the lockpick in his hands trying not to think about...trying not to think about anything other than the warnings he was dispensing. “More dangerous than anything you can imagine.”

“I doubt that.”

“Trust me, Georgie.” Jon looked at her with more intensity and earnestness and pleading than he had since their break up. “Looking for evil books is never a good idea.” Georgie opened her mouth as though to say something but no sound came out.

“Well we don’t think the books themselves are evil,” Melanie piped up. “It’s the _tomb_ that’s cursed.”

Jon looked away from Georgie and examined Melanie. They were relatively the same height, which was convenient for such tasks. “You’re sure?”

Melanie nodded. “We—well, Georgie—found this old legend from Schramberg, which is this little village in the Black Forest, about Johann’s tomb,” she started. “It’s about these children, right? And they’re playing a bravery game called Johann’s Steps where they’d go to the tomb and go down as many steps as they dared to and stay there until they were seen, and then they’d go running back out.”

“Seen?” asked Jon. “By what?”

Georgie shrugged. “The legend never specified.”

“Right.”

“But anyway,” continued Melanie, “one day one of the mothers of one of the children playing the game finds out, and by the time she’s at the tomb her son—Hans I think? Something really German like that—is already inside. So the mother rushes inside to get her son—”

“And then no one’s really sure what happened to her,” finished Georgie gravely.

Jon blinked. “What?”

“Well, the children all heard her scream,” explained Georgie, “and apparently the village sent a priest and some men to figure out what happened but beyond that, the woman vanished. Her son moved in with another family and the children don’t go back to the mausoleum anymore.”

“Where do the books come in?”

“They come in after about a month of research.” Georgie leaned back into the heavy iron of the door. “Mel found something about an old shipment of books from the Black Forest to here and then another month of checking from where exactly, but all of that’s to say—”

“They’re here and we think they may shed some light on what’s living in the tomb,” finished Melanie.

Jon paused for a minute, thinking. “I think I might have an idea of what it is.”

Georgie and Melanie gaped at him. “What?”

“Really?”

“Yes. The statement I’m working on, it mentions some sort of defender of the tomb.”

“Could we see the statement?” asked Georgie, eyes wide.

“I suppose. If it wasn’t at my desk. And I don’t think you’re getting anywhere with the bobby pin.”

Melanie glowered at him. “It’s not my fault that this YouTube video is so hard to follow! See, when I make a video it's—”

Georgie placed a hand on Melanie’s shoulder to calm her and looked at Jon. “You said your friend could let us in? Martin?”

He had said that, hadn't he? Jon cursed himself and sighed. “He might not if he thinks I’m going to be working. He’s the reason I got suspended in the first place.”

“What did you do to piss him off?” snorted Georgie.

“I...sleep in the Archives sometimes when I work late,” he admitted. “And I may have moved the cot to a not entirely safe location so that I could continue doing so after Sasha rather explicitly told me not to.”

“Jon!” Georgie gaped at him, exasperated, though with a bit of fondness creeping in at the edges. It was familiar. Berating Jon for not taking care of himself was familiar, and almost comfortable to some extent.

“Putting in the extra time to—” Jon put his hands up to stop himself and sighed again, deeper this time. “I’m not having this argument again.”

“What if it wasn’t for work?” asked Melanie.

“What?”

“What if you weren’t technically working?” Melanie repeated. “Would he let you into the Archives then?”

“What, like I left my jacket inside and I need to get it?”

A smile flickered on Melanie’s lips. “More like, you’re helping some friends do research for their joint podcast/YouTube show venture?” 

Georgie let out a laugh, but Jon just shook his head. “He’s not going to buy that we’re friends. He already knows you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” said Georgie, and Jon raised an eyebrow. “Anymore.”

After a beat, Jon shrugged. “Fine. I’ll ask. Give me a minute.” Jon took a step away from Georgie and Melanie and pulled up Martin’s contact. Even if Jon hated him, Martin didn’t need to know that. Jon was going to have to play it cool. Casual. Pretend even if he was a terrible liar. But he couldn't let himself forget how much he loathed the man. If Martin hadn’t gotten him suspended then he wouldn’t even be in this situation. He took a deep breath and pressed call.

The phone didn’t even have time to ring. 

“J _on?”_ Martin’s voice came crackling from the phone’s speaker, though the panic laden in his voice came through perfectly clear. _“Jon are you okay? Are you hurt?_ ”

“What? No, Martin, I’m fine,” Jon soothed. Confusion was not the best way to start his act, and soothing Martin was not a great way to keep himself from not hating him anymore.

“ _Are you sure?_ ”

“Yes, Martin.”

“ _Alright.”_ There was a beat. _“Sorry about the suspension._ ”

Jon bit his lip. “It’s...fine.”

“ _I didn’t realize that Sasha would do that or — _”

“Martin, it’s alright. I’m keeping busy.”

“ _Good! That’s good.”_ Martin’s smile was audible. _“What are you doing?_ ” 

“I’m...you’re not going to believe me,” said Jon.

 _“_ _I'm the one who believes people, remember?_ ”

Jon let out a small laugh despite himself. “Right. Well, I’m working with Melanie and Georgie. On research. For their shows.”

“ _What?”_ cried Martin. _“What happened to the blood feud?_ ”

“I told you there was no blood feud, Martin.” From his left, Georgie raised an eyebrow and mouthed the word “blood feud,” but Jon just waved her off and turned his attention back to Martin.

“ _I didn’_ _t believe it,”_ he was saying.

Jon shook his head in mock disappointment. “And here I was thinking you were supposed to be the one who believes.”

Martin laughed, the sound just as lovely and melodious through the phone, albeit a little tinny. “ _Fair. Why are you calling then?_ ” Jon could feel his resolve and hatred crumble away and he mentally cured the charming bastard. It wasn’t fair. No one should be that damn likable. It was incredibly inconvenient. 

Jon sighed. “We need to get into the Archives.”

“ _Jon!”_

“I know how it sounds, but trust me,” Jon urged. “I just need your key. I wouldn’t even be calling if Melanie was better at picking locks.” From the door, Melanie flipped him off and threw a bobby pin at him, which bounced harmlessly off his shirt sleeve.

“ _Right.”_ Martin was a little quieter, almost disappointed. _“I...do trust you, Jon. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, alright? Try not to rekindle any blood feuds until then._ ”

“I’ll do my best.”

“ _See you then._ ”

“Bye, Martin.” The call ended and Jon slipped his phone into his pocket. Georgie gave him an odd look, but if she had a reason for it, she said nothing.

By the time Martin’s car spluttered over to them, Jon, Georgie, and Melanie were spread out across the small grassy clearing. Melanie was sprawled out like a starfish between the other two. Jon and Georgie were catching up, or more specifically Georgie was leaning over Melanie to show him pictures of her cat while Jon tried to ignore the grass stains that were definitely making a ruin of his shirt while still cooing over the Admiral at the same time. 

Jon looked up from Georgie’s phone as the car door closed to see Martin, and he couldn't stop himself from beaming at him.

Jon waved him over. “Martin! You’re here!”

Martin made his way over and let out a half-laugh. “Are you excited to see me or are you excited to be let back into the Archives?”

“I can be excited by two things, Martin,” snapped Jon, scowling at him. He _was_ excited to see Martin, he realized, somewhat bitterly. He’d _missed_ him. 

Martin snorted. “Sure.”

“Martin right? Georgie Barker.” Georgie stood and extended a hand, which Martin shook after a moment’s hesitation. 

“Melanie,” Melanie said with a nod.

Martin smiled at them. “I know. It’s a pleasure to meet both of you, really. I’m just a little surprised that you’re really here and this isn't just some ploy to get some work done from Jon."

“Honestly I’m a little surprised you’re real too,” laughed Georgie, pulling Melanie to her feet. “It’s hard to imagine Jon making friends on his own.”

“Yes, yes I’m full of surprises,” groused Jon. “Martin, you were going to unlock the door?”

Martin rolled his eyes and fished his key out from his pocket. “So what is it exactly are you three researching?” With a grunt, Martin forced the door open. How he’d managed to do so Jon didn’t know. It had been basically fused shut, locked or no, but still, Martin had managed to get it open. That also seemed unfair. He shouldn’t be allowed to be both absurdly charming and strong. The door creaked open, letting out a rusted hiss, and Martin flicked on the lights as they entered.

“The library of Johann von Württemberg,” answered Melanie, making her way over to Jon’s desk.

Martin furrowed his brow. “Where do I know that name from?”

“He’s part of my statement,” Jon said apologetically. The look on Martin’s face was murderous, but Jon cut him off before he could say anything. “It’s a coincidence, Martin.”

“Are you sure?” snapped Martin. “Because it seems really convenient that the case you’re spending so much time working on that you were _suspended_ is the same one that Georgie and Melanie are working on.”

“Jon, is this the statement?” Jon looked over to his desk to find Georgie holding up a manilla folder thankfully blank of any pop culture references.

“It should be,” called Jon, before nudging Martin with his elbow. “I see Tim hasn’t had the time to completely convert the statements to his new filing system, then?”

“Oh he tried, but I stopped him before he got to it,” Martin said, annoyance fading into a hint of pride.

Jon smiled at him. “Thank you, though I fear it’s an exercise in futility. He’ll get to it eventually. He’s remarkably good at getting to them before I can stop him. You should see what he did to case #0131103. It’s practically illegible.”

“I bet it looks lovely though.” Jon let out a breathy laugh and started to say a counter before Georgie cut him off.

“Jon?”

Jon turned back to her reluctantly. Honestly, he’d forgotten she and Melanie were there for a moment. With Martin in tow, he made his way back to his desk. “Yes?”

“This statement does really help,” Georgie started, laying it down on Jon’s desk. “I mean, it talks about what’s inside the tomb and about the books, but I didn’t see anything about a monster or defender.”

“I always thought that’s what the eyeless man was,” said Jon.

Melanie nodded thoughtfully. “It does meet that whole spookily seeing MO from the story.”

But Georgie shook her head. “I’m still not convinced that he’s the thing living in the tomb. Von Closen said that his clothes were a bit dated, but not 1200s dated.”

“Maybe not,” admitted Melanie. “But it does confirm that at least one book is here. That’s a start.”

“There should be more books here too.” They all turned to Martin.

“What?”

“There’s another statement related to this one I read a while back. Well, skimmed. It was misfiled, I didn’t really pay much attention to it if I’m being honest,” confessed Martin sheepishly. “But it mentioned that some books from the Black Forest owned by Albrect von Closen were taken by Jonah Magnus. They should be here.”

“We’ve got to look for that statement,” said Jon.

Martin looked apologetically at him. “It could be anywhere. I’ll keep an eye out for it, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“It’s still good to know,” Georgie assured him.

Melanie sank down onto Jon’s chair, remarkably not yet swapped out in his absence, though it seemed Tim had supplemented his newfound ownership of the student’s chair by putting his beanbag on top of it. “Where do you think the books are being kept?”

“Well, it’s not the library. We’ve already checked.” Georgie made a face. "Extensively.”

“I don’t think they’re in the Archives either,” added Jon “If they were here I’d have found them by now.”

“Where does that leave then?” Martin asked. “Artifact Storage?”

Jon shivered. “I hope not.”

Melanie looked at them quizzically. “What’s so bad about Artifact Storage?” 

Jon and Martin exchanged a look. “Among other things,” said Jon. “You can’t really check things out of there. _Especially_ not books.”

“So if that is where they are…” Martin started.

A gleam appeared in Georgie's eyes that was eerily familiar. It was a look that Jon knew well, and one that always promised mayhem. The patented Barker Chaos Look had never failed to live up to its name. “Then I think we might be pulling a heist.”

Jon let out a strangled noise that somewhat resembled words. “A _heist?_ ”

Melanie grinned at him. “Are you in?”

Jon sighed. “Technically speaking I think this counts as statement follow-up. And it’s not like I have anything better to do.” He glanced up at Martin. “You don’t have to join us, I mean, breaking into Artifact Storage is going to be dangerous and—”

“Jon.” Martin put a hand on Jon’s shoulder and smiled down at him. “We’re partners, remember?” 

Heat bloomed in Jon’s cheeks. “This isn’t strictly work-related though.”

“Still.” Martin removed his hand and let his smile warp into a crooked, Cheshire grin. “And anyway, knowing you you’re going to do something stupid. If I’m around maybe it won’t be as stupid as it can be.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Martin.” But his words were fonder than they had any right to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right so that's the last of my pre-written chapter done then. Originally I only had 1-4, but I managed to write my second and third drafts in the same day so *air guitars.* I then proceeded to burn myself out for like a week. Y'all are at the mercy of my motivation now, so feel free to bully me ruthlessly in the comments until the next chapter is done. Speaking of comments, that you all so much for your comments on last week's chapter! I really needed them. Ohio sucks. I hate being there.
> 
> Next Chapter: Jon is definitely paying attention, Georgie takes the lead, Melanie would romance a ghost, and your foolish, overambitious author has to plan a heist (fuck!)


	6. Bottle Episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Listening: _Holding You Tight_ by Bikini Sleepover  
> For: Fancy outfits and yearning Vibes  
> (that's right this is an edit because I finally found an appropriate song, though Bongolia is indeed a bop)
> 
> CW//
> 
> Alcohol usage  
> (speaking of, it's alcohol usage as written by a sixteen-year-old who has never had alcohol but has seen just like sp many movies and TV shows, so uh, sorry?)

“Are you paying attention?” Georgie looked down at him, equal parts amused and annoyed.

Jon was, for his part, not paying attention in the slightest. Jon, Martin, Melanie, and Georgie were all congregated in Georgie’s flat, which while rather violently alerting Jon that Georgie’s sense of style had not changed much at all since Uni, also meant that Jon had been introduced to Georgie’s roommate. 

The Admiral was...precious. An angel. A blessing, a gift unto this world, and at the moment contentedly purring in Jon’s arms as he scratched behind the soft orange fluff of the Admiral’s ears. So Jon was very much _not_ paying attention to whatever Georgie had been saying, though that didn’t stop him from glaring indignantly at Georgie and scoffing. “Of course.”

Georgie seemed unconvinced. “Why did I ask you all to come here then?”

Jon quickly racked his brain for an answer. He hadn’t paid attention to much of anything once he’d seen the Admiral. He’d barely even registered Georgie ushering them all into her cramped kitchen, and he wasn’t quite sure when exactly he’d sat down on the wooden stool he found himself perched upon. In fact, it was only now that Georgie had shaken him from his cat tunnel vision that he realized that the four of them (five including the Admiral, which Jon did) were not, in fact, sitting around a table, but a kitchen island. Distantly he remembered the text from Georgie that had brought him here and he gave her an unwarrantedly confident look. “You think you’ve found our opening.”

Georgie squinted at Jon, scrutinizing him. Finally, she seemed to give up, and let out a sigh. “Fine. You keep your Admiral privileges. For now.” Jon clutched the Admiral closer protectively and glared at Georgie. Jon always thought he had a rather intimidating glare, and if there was any time to use it, it was now. He ignored the amused look on Martin’s face. Georgie, for her part, did not look properly intimidated and just rolled her eyes at him. “Anyway, like I was saying, I think I know when we can do this. I’m sure at least Jon and Martin are aware of the Magnus Institute’s Annual Sponsor's Ball?” Jon and Martin both groaned.

“I take that’s a yes, then,” snorted Melanie, leaning into the counter with a smirk.

“Elias is...more _Elias_ than usual whenever it comes around,” Jon explained, upper lip curling in contempt.

Martin nodded gravely. “Rosie has to go every year for whatever reason. You should hear the stories she tells. They skew...risque.”

“Yes, well it’s also the only time where the Institute is open and basically empty,” said Georgie, looking a little less sure than she had a moment ago.

Jon raised an eyebrow as he rubbed the steadfastly purring Admiral's chin. “Basically empty? There’s going to be at least a hundred people there, not to mention Elias on full alert.”

“At least a hundred people _all on one floor_ ,” grinned Georgie, regaining her composure. “The event itself takes place in the Canteen, and the rest of the building is closed to the guests. That means that every level will be empty except for the ground level.”

“Which Artifact Storage is on.”

“Yes, but on the opposite side of the building.”

“And security around Artifact Storage is...well there _is_ security around Artifact Storage,” interjected Martin, looking apologetic.

“There are cameras,” Jon agreed. “And the door is locked. It’s a proper lock too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” snarled Melanie, fingers rapping on the ugly adjacent countertop in a faux-casual warning.

“It means we weren’t able to break the lock on the _Archives_ ,” explained Jon, unimpressed. “So either someone learns how to properly pick a lock, or we steal the key.”

“Jon!” Martin gaped at him, wide-eyed and aghast.

“What?” Jon adjusted his hold on the Admiral and shrugged nonchalantly. “We’re already stealing from Artifact Storage. Taking a key can’t hurt. And besides, all we need to do is take it long enough to make a copy.”

“That...makes a lot of sense, actually,” begrudged Melanie, looking annoyed at that fact.

Georgie chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Do we know who has the key to Artifact Storage?”

Martin nodded. “Sonia’s head of the department but she’s really protective of it.”

“Which I guess is to be expected from the way you two talk about that place,” sighed Georgie.

“Again, we don’t need the key for very long,” Jon interposed, absently massaging circles into the fur on the Admiral’s head. “Just long enough to make a copy.”

“All we need is one of those key presses and an excuse for someone to get a hold of the key,” agreed Melanie. She finally abandoned the stool she’d been perched upon and hopped up onto the island countertop. 

The room was quiet for a beat. “It’ll have to be Martin, then,” Jon sighed, sidling Martin with a mournful look. “I’m not allowed in the building and you two won’t be allowed to even get close to Artifact Storage, let alone the key.” 

“Do you think you can do it?” asked Georgie, softly.

Martin hesitated for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah.”

“I think I’ll practice picking locks anyway,” Melanie mused. “Just in case.”

“That’s how we get into Artifact Storage squared away, but how are we going to get into the Institute during the ball? None of us are sponsors,” Martin asked, cocking his head to the side, his soft brown hair falling just a little into his eyes. Jon rubbed the soft behind the Admiral’s ears and wondered, just for an inconsequential and meaningless moment, if Martin’s hair would be that soft. 

Georgie’s laugh shook Jon out of his unbidden musings. “Not yet.”

“What?”

Georgie nudged Melanie with her arm. “Me and Mel are starting a joint media company.” 

Melanie grinned. “We’ll be a network. Patreon’s going wild for us.”

“They’re going wild for the Admiral,” Georgie corrected, rolling her eyes. “His presence is a fairly high reward tier.”

“The internet’s besotted.”

 _“Jon’s_ besotted.”

Jon, who had really only been paying half attention to the conversation, glared up at the pair of them, and once again clutched the cat in his arms closer to him. “Yes, well he’s a very important part of this operation, and I’m just making sure he knows he’s appreciated.”

“Don’t let it get to his head,” Georgie warned.

Jon pressed a kiss to the top of the Admiral’s head, who reached his tiny head up to meet him with a soft _brr_. “He’s far too humble for that.”

“So what, _What the Ghost_ and _Ghost Hunt UK_ are going to be sponsors of the Institute?” asked Martin, not looking at Melanie or Georgie and instead looking at Jon with a tender look on his face.

Jon let out a derisive snort. “There goes your credibility.”

“Jon, I’m serious,” Georgie warned, crossing her arms across the _What the Ghost_ logo emblazoned on her shirt. “I’ll revoke your Admiral privileges if you’re going to be an asshole.”

“You wouldn’t _dare_.”

“How are _we_ getting in then?” interrupted Martin, nodding at Jon and clearly trying to diffuse the situation.

Georgie gave Jon a warning look before turning her attention to Martin. “We both get a plus one each. It should be enough to get us in the door.”

“That just leaves getting the books and then getting them out of document storage. That’s where you two come in.” Melanie grinned at them.

Jon straightened and slowed his cat petting. He was a professional after all. “Right. As far as I’m concerned, we just need to get the books to the Archives.”

Melanie made a face. “Why?”

“It’s fairly secluded with a newly opened back entrance out,” Jon said ruffling the fur on the back of the Admiral’s neck. “Since no one’s used that door for easily over two decades, no one will be watching it. As far as Elias or anyone else is concerned, it’s just more wall. That just leaves getting the books to the Archives. The statement implied there were a lot of them, so I don’t think just carrying them’s feasible.”

“Well, they have to take deliveries, right?” asked Martin.

Melanie leaned back, arm keeping her from pitching backward and onto the floor and a confused expression on her face. “What?”

“Artifact Storage. They take deliveries all the time, and they tend to skew bigger I think.”

Somewhere in Jon’s brain, a lightbulb flickered on. “Which means that they have to have a way to move larger, heavier artifacts.”

Martin beamed at him. “Exactly. I’d need to check, but I’m already going to Artifact Storage anyway. I’ll report back.”

“So what does that leave?” asked Georgie. “An exit plan?”

Jon stroked the Admiral like a Bond villain, mulling it over. “Martin’s got a car. We can just park it by the Archive’s back exit and load up the trunk. When we’re done, we can just drive away. It’s fairly simple, but so is most of this plan.”

“Simple doesn’t mean ineffective,” Melanie shrugged. “It’s not very _Ocean’s Eleven_ , but it’ll work.”

Georgie fished her phone from her back pocket and looked up at the three of them. “What do we need to get?”

“One of those things you press keys into to make a copy for one,” said Melanie, and Georgie’s fingers flew across her screen. “Or a lockpick just in case.”

“You can use mine if you want,” Jon said offhandedly.

Martin gaped at him. “Why do you have a lockpick?”

“Until I ran into the lot of you,” groused Jon. “I was going to break into the Archives on my own.”

Martin looked like he was going to say something, but Melanie cut him off. “Just a keypress then.”

Georgie made the adjustment on her phone and looked up at the group, a smug smile on her face. “Almost. The Sponsor's Ball is a black-tie event. We’ll need something to wear.”

* * *

From the floor of her closet, Georgie tutted in good-natured disbelief. “I still can’t believe you don’t have any black tie.”

Jon didn’t even bother looking up to give her a look. “Why would I?”

“You’re always dressed up!”

“In business casual, Georgie,” sighed Jon. “You can’t exactly wear business casual to a black-tie event. I’m more surprised that everyone _else_ had black tie on hand.” For some inexplicable reason, the three others had taken the news of the dress code in stride, while Jon had found himself floundering. 

Georgie held up a pair of shoes and looked at it appraisingly before tossing it behind her in annoyance. “What can I say, we’re fancy people.”

“At least Martin and Melanie only had one suit each, you have a _selection_ of black tie.” Martin had recently attended the wedding of someone at the Institute, though whose exactly Jon wasn’t sure. Melanie for her part seemed to have made a habit of ghost investigation with a black-tie dress code and had only a month ago investigated a hotel with a supposedly haunted ballroom that demanded any who entered it to be well dressed. Georgie, on the other hand, had taken Jon’s lack of outfit option as a personal challenge and had wheeled him into her room and presented him with a selection of ensembles all dumped inelegantly on her bed.

From the closet, he could almost hear Georgie’s smirk. “Lucky for you.”

“I suppose.” Jon lifted up an off the shoulder cream-colored dress and sighed as he returned it back to its place by Georgie’s pillow. “We’re not exactly the same size.”

“I can tailor it. Or did you forget Georgie Barker was a certified theatre techie back in the day?” Georgie actually stopped her rummaging to lean out of her closet and give him a wry smile and a raised eyebrow.

“You were in charge of _audio_ , Georgie.”

“Yes,” she conceded, “but I’m a woman of many talents. I picked up a few things.”

Now it was Jon’s turn to raise an eyebrow at her. “Like how to tailor clothing?”

“Exactly. Now stop stalling and pick a dress, Sims.”

The slew of dresses laid in front of Jon leered up at him. Georgie had long since picked her dress, something pink and sparkly with long sleeves and that made the faintest jingle when it moved like it was made of wind chimes. Even with Georgie’s dress extracted from the pile and sitting next to her on the floor in front of her overflowing closet, the mass of dresses was still imposing.

Jon tore his eyes away from the mound. “Seriously though, why do you have so much black tie?”

Georgie shrugged as she compared a frighteningly high heeled shoe up to her cocktail dress. “I go to a lot of parties.”

“Podcaster parties?”

“Not just.” Georgie tossed the shoe into the steadily growing congregation behind her. “And sometimes I want to look nice.”

“Black tie nice?” asked Jon.

“If the mood demands it.” Georgie looked away from her shoe hoard and let out a breathy laugh. “And anyway, the only way I can get anyone to eat Hungarian food with me is to go on a stupid date. You hate it, Jeff says it’s ‘too Soviet’ whatever that means, and Melanie says it’s too salty.”

Jon crossed his arms. “I don’t _hate_ Hungarian food.”

“And yet you’ve reduced me to selling my body for Chapska salads,” pointed Georgie, shaking her head.

Jon let out an undignified noise that was like a laugh if a laugh had been put through a blender. “‘Selling your body?’”

“Well not exactly, but you get what I mean,” said Georgie, comparing the weight of two near-identical shoes. “I think I’m wearing Melanie down though. She offered it up for dinner last week. I didn’t even have to ask.” She was quiet for a moment, the shoes in her hands temporarily forgotten and a sort of dreamy look in her eyes. Georgie shook her head and raised an eyebrow at him. “Find anything yet?”

“Not really,” Jon admitted with a sigh. “Are you legally required to have such short dresses?”

“It’s hard to dance with a floor-length dress, Jon.”

Jon snorted. “If you lack coordination, maybe.”

Georgie glared at him, and for a moment he was sure she was going to throw the flat in her hand at him. She didn’t, thankfully, and instead just shook her head again and turned back to the closet. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure that the green one is floor length.”

“It also has a massive leg slit,” pointed Jon, holding up the dress in question. It looked nice enough, the hill green wonderfully accented by pale green leaves climbing up the front of it like they were alive. “And no back.”

“Take it or leave it, Jon.”

Jon rotated the dress a few times and sighed. “Fine.”

“I’ll even sew up the slit a little,” added Georgie. “As a treat.”

“Your generosity knows no bounds.”

“Truly. Now help me find some shoes to go with this dress.”

“Shouldn’t I be looking for shoes to go with mine?” asked Jon, sitting next to her around the outpouring of shoes still left in her closet. “You certainly stole my shoes enough that I know we’ve got the same foot size.”

“Don’t act so high and mighty Mister ‘I’ll only wear tee shirts if they were Georgie’s first,’” Georgie said, gesturing accusatorily at him with a wickedly sharp looking black pump.

Jon pawed through the pile. “I wore tee shirts that weren’t yours. That one band shirt from that rubbish concert you made me go to was mine.”

“Only because I gave it to you.”

“That is how gifts work, Georgie.” Jon grasped a sort of sparkly black sandal-ish thing and dangled it in front of her by its strings. “Will this work?”

Georgie examined it, chewing her lip absently, lost in thought. “Put them to the side,” she decided finally, turning back to the mass and once again rooting through it. “I could have sworn I had some shoes in here that...ah-ha!” Georgie held up a pair of shoes nearly identical to one she’d grabbed in the beginning, maybe slightly sparklier than the original pair, but Jon may have just been grasping at straws. She tossed them at him in triumph. “Suck it, Jon!”

Jon placed the shoes in a relatively unoccupied patch of floor. “What did I do?”

“I found them! In your face.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “This wasn’t a competition.”

“To you maybe. It’s why you lost.”

“I’m starting to remember why we broke up,” grumbled Jon. “Can we look for shoes for me now?”

Georgie grinned at him, eyes aflame with victory and mirth. “Fine. Flats or heels?”

* * *

In the ensuing two weeks of preparation, mostly at Georgie's flat, Jon had started to think of the stool he perched himself upon, the one that was just a little bit wobblier than the rest, as _his_ stool. And it definitely didn’t have anything to do with the fact that it seemed to be the Admiral’s favorite chair, and his likelihood of the Admiral curling up on his lap and shoving his little squashed orange face into Jon's torso increased exponentially whenever he sat there. That notion was ridiculous. It was just a coincidence that now, with Georgie and Melanie bickering affectionately as they were wont to do over a sticker-laden laptop at the other end of the island and Jon sitting semi-comfortably in his seat, that the Admiral had decided to sit with him, just like Jon definitely hadn’t counted on.

It had been a productive few weeks, thought Jon absently, running a lithe hand through the Admiral’s fur. Everything was bought and set aside and so all that was left was the donation and Martin’s acquisition of the key. And even if he didn’t get his hands on it, it hardly mattered. Melanie had progressed worryingly quickly with lockpicking, spurred on mostly to spite Jon if he wasn't mistaken. Either way, she could now pop a lock rather quickly, and with a considerably reduced amount of swearing.

There was a knock at Georgie’s door, and then it opened to reveal Martin. In an instant, the Admiral had extracted himself from Jon’s lap and was rubbing his head expectantly against Martin’s legs. Unfortunately, no matter the strategic seating choices (not that it was strategic), Jon simply couldn’t compete with the human space heater that was Martin Blackwood when it came to cat attraction. Not that Jon was bitter or anything. It was rather hard to be as Martin scooped up the now incessantly mewling Admiral at his feet and began gently cooing to him as he made his way over to the island.

Georgie only glanced up from the laptop and whatever debate she'd been having with Melanie for a moment. “Where have you been? We had to order pizza without you.”

“Sorry I’m late but I got a little caught up getting…” started Martin, pausing to adjust his hold on the Admiral to fish something out of his pocket. “This!” Martin placed something down on the table with a grin, something Jon realized was the keypress, now indented with the shape of the key to Artifact Storage.

Melanie let out a whoop. “How’d you get it, mate?”

Martin shrugged nonchalantly and stroked the side of the Admiral’s neck with his thumb. “We finally got a statement that needed some follow up from Artifact Storage, and it wasn’t like anyone else was jumping at the chance to go down there.”

“You didn’t get hurt in there, did you?” asked Jon. Jubilation aside, Artifact Storage was a nightmare a minute, and fraught with danger at every turn if the security and employee turnover rate were any indications. The thought of Martin being there alone terrified him, even if it did mean it would remove Jon’s main competition for the Admiral’s affections.

“I’m alright Jon. I didn’t even get close to anything. I just got some pictures for Sasha,” soothed Martin. Jon probably looked as unconvinced as he felt because the look that Martin gave him, full of gentleness and reassurance, was one for the record books. “I’m fine Jon, really.”

Jon tugged at his fingers nervously. The upcoming excursion into Artifact Storage had been weighing heavily on him. He wanted to get those books, to do this heist, to learn, to _know_ , but it was still fucking _Artifact Storage_ , terror at every turn and all that. “I’m just worried,” he said finally. “I know you and Melanie can handle it but...I mean, you’ve heard the way Sasha talks about it. She probably would have quit the Institute if she hadn’t been moved to the Archives.”

“Artifact Storage is dangerous, but we’ve been in dangerous situations before and we’ve been fine,” urged Martin. The Admiral squirmed in his arms, evidently over being held even if it was held by Martin, and Martin let him drop.

“You were attacked by a werewolf and eaten by a door, Martin,” pointed Jon as the Admiral scurried out of sight, presumably to lounge on Georgie’s bed. “I’d hardly qualify that as fine.”

Martin cocked his head and grinned. “I made it out didn’t I?” He let his expression soften and for a moment it looked like he was going to reach out and hold Jon’s hand. “It’ll be alright, I promise.”

Jon’s hands stilled, and he felt his own expression soften from worry to that of...he wasn’t quite sure. He just let it soften into something else. “I know,” he said. “I trust you.” They were quiet for a moment, just sort of staring at one another, and remained as such until the electric scream of Georgie’s buzzer alerted the group that the pizza had arrived.

Georgie straightened from the laptop and glanced for a moment at Jon, an oddly smug look on her face. “Right, I’ll get that. Melanie get the donation page cued up, Jon get the wine. We’re having a party, folks!” 

Reluctantly, Jon removed himself from his perch on top of his stool to go to the minifridge Georgie insisted on calling the “wine cellar.” Only a handful of the bottles in said “cellar” were full, and Jon doubted there was much difference between them in terms of quality. He placed the closest one onto the island as Georgie went to grab a slew of wine glasses with hands already full of pizza.

The bottle of wine Jon had nabbed opened with a satisfying _pop_ , and it’s contents were a deep purple bordering on black. Georgie filled three of the glasses and made a motion to fill the fourth when Martin waved her off.

“I’m alright,” he said. “I don’t really drink.”

Jon, glass already in hand, looked up at him. “Because of the tannins, right?”

Martin blushed slightly. “Yeah. And anyway I‘ve got to drive home.”

“Aren’t there tannins in tea too?” asked Melanie conversationally. “You certainly drink that.” Jon snorted into his wine. Martin had slotted into his role as resident tea maker within a few days of their little group’s meetings, and ever since had been plying them all with more tea than they could ever hope to drink. 

“And you can always crash here,” Georgie offered. “Melanie certainly is going to, and Jon is…?”

Jon shrugged. “Might as well.”

Georgie took a sip of her own and looked at the bottle Jon had grabbed from the wine cellar, examining the label. “Pinot Noir’s got a pretty low tannin count too, I think.”

Melanie made a face. “Ugh, you’ve been spending too much time with Jon. He’s ruining you. You’re a nerd now!”

“I’ve always been a nerd, Mel.”

“But you didn’t always talk about tannin counts, did you?”

Georgie rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to Martin. She held out the bottle questioningly. “So?”

Martin shook his head with a sigh. “Fine. What the hell.” 

Georgie smiled and poured him a glass. Corking the bottle, she nudged Melanie with her elbow. “Mel, have you got everything pulled up?”

“Yup. One more click and we’ll officially be donors of the Magnus Institute and our heist is fully ready. And...done!” Melanie exclaimed, tapping her trackpad with a flourish and grinning up at the group. “Cheers folks!” 

There was the clink of glasses, and everybody took a sip.

* * *

A far drunker Jon, Georgie, Melanie, and Martin now sat around Georgie’s kitchen island. 

Georgie let out a bubbly laugh and shoved Melanie playfully. “Melanie!”

“What?” cried Melanie. “You mean to tell me you run a ghost podcast and you’ve never thought about romancing a ghost?”

“Why would I? They’re _dead!_ ”

“They’re still _people_ ,” Melanie retorted, taking another sip from her second or third glass of wine. 

_“Dead_ people.”

“ _Sexy_ people. Anyways, they’ve got the important bits! The spirit or soul or whatever!” Georgie laughed again and Melanie shook her head incredulously. She turned to Jon and Martin. “C’mon back me up. Would you romance a ghost?”

“I tried to,” admitted Martin.

If his glass hadn’t been empty for at least ten minutes now, Jon would have choked on his wine. He gawked at Martin. “What?”

“Back in uh, back in 11th year I think? I was at a party. Guy had a ouija board.” Martin shrugged nonchalantly. “Tried to romance a ghost.”

“Did it work?” asked Melanie, also gawking at him.

“Ouija boards don’t work,” Jon pointed, finally reaching for the wine bottle for a refill.

Martin tisked at him. “What did we say about skepticism?”

“This isn’t skepticism,” grumbled Jon. “They don’t.”

Melanie curled her lip at him. “How’d you know? Did the ghost you tried to romance not pick up?”

Jon made a face at her. If he were a little more petulant, a little more drunk, he would have stuck his tongue at her. But as he was an adult and only tipsy, he instead spluttered out, “I’ve never tried to _romance_ a _ghost_.”

“But would you if given the opportunity?” asked Georgie, tapping her chin in mock scholarly thoughtfulness.

“I guess?” Jon ignored the various reaction sounds that veritably exploded out of his companions and plowed on. “I don’t know. If the ghost is nice and not like...Slimer or anything I don’t see why not.”

“Because it’s dead!” cried Georgie, looking incredulous and betrayed.

“Are we going to ignore that Jon knows enough about Ghostbusters that he can name an unsexy ghost from it?” Melanie asked.

“Again, I’m not _that_ old,” grumbled Jon, swirling the wine in his glass lazily. “I had it on VHS.”

Melanie made another face. “That sentence makes _me_ feel old.”

“Are there any sexy ghosts in Ghostbusters?” Martin asked, cocking his head in that endearing puppy-dog way he did.

“Sigourney Weaver,” said Jon and Georgie at the same time.

Melanie got a far off look on her face and smiled dreamily. “Sigourney Weaver, yeah.”

Martin looked unconvinced. “But she’s not a ghost though.”

“You know what?” said Georgie, placing her wine glass down on the counter probably a little harder than she should have. “I’d romance a ghost if it was Sigourney Weaver.”

“That’s full conversion!” crowed Melanie, raising her glass far too fast and sloshing a good portion of its contents onto the island. “Cheers!”

The glasses did not clink, they clattered together, and everyone damn near drained them in one swig.

* * *

An indeterminate amount of time and an indeterminate amount of alcohol later, Jon sat on Georgie’s scratchy couch with the Admiral once again blessedly in his arms. No, that wasn’t right. Jon had drowned who knows how many glasses ago, and so now it was Drunk Jon who was in control and Drunk Jon was a mess of a person (not that normal Jon wasn't already).

Drunk Jon ran a hand through the Admiral’s soft ginger hair with a contented sigh. He liked cats; both Jons did. The closest Jon ever got to being Drunk Jon sober was when he was in proximity to a cat. The Admiral was a good cat. All cats were good, if not a little prickly, but the Admiral was a _very_ good cat. Maybe that’s why Jon liked cats so much. They reminded him of himself. Or maybe not. That was probably a bit more cognisance for how drunk Jon was right now. Maybe they were just cute.

Speaking of, Jon let his head loll to the side to look at Martin, squished on the floor beside him. “Martin?”

Martin looked up at him through doe-like lashes. “Mm?”

“You’re nice. D’you know that? You’re a nice person.”

A lilting smile played at Martin’s lips. _“You’re_ a nice person.”

Jon furrowed his brow and shook his head. “No, I'm not. Not like you. You’re so nice to everyone, Martin. Even me.” Jon paused his stroking of the Admiral and stared at Martin in confusion. “Why’re you so nice to me?”

“Dunno,” admitted Martin. “I like you. You’re smart. Pretty.”

 _“You’re_ pretty.”

Martin looked down. He looked sad. “No. That’s not...no. Not according to most people.”

That was dumb. Jon poked Martin on the arm and said so. “They’re dumb.”

Martin looked back up at him and giggled. “What?”

“If they think that, they’re dumb. You’re very pretty, Martin,” Drunk Jon urged, and Martin giggled again. Jon tilted his head. “What?”

“You’re so nice and you don’t even know it,” sighed Martin.

“It’s not me being nice, ’s just the facts. Ask Georgie and...and Melanie.”

Another giggle escaped Martin's lips. “Jon!” 

Drunk Jon was finding he quite liked Martin’s giggles. They were like carbonation, all fizzy and filling. He wanted Martin to laugh like that more. “Melanie! Georgie!”

Georgie’s head popped from somewhere like a prairie dog. “What?”

“Is Martin pretty?”

Georgie broke into a massive grin. “Yeah! Very pretty! Dunno how you managed to score that one, Jon. Out of your league.”

“See?” said Drunk Jon rubbing the Admiral’s chin in triumph. “Told you. Pretty.”

Martin looked at him equally triumphantly. “See? Told you, _nice_.” The Admiral took the opportunity to wiggle out of Jon’s grasp and nuzzle up to Martin.

Drunk Jon frowned at the two of them, squinty and annoyed. “Thief,” he spat, though he wasn’t sure to which of the pair it was directed towards. Maybe both of them at once. Georgie emerged, properly this time, with Melanie’s arm slung over her shoulder. Melanie for her part was passed out, and from the look of her hair, all mushed down and mottled, she had been for some time.

Georgie nodded at Jon and Martin, her own eyes heavily lidded and her voice thick from exhaustion. “We’re gonna go t’bed, alright? The couch’s a pullout if that’s alright. ‘Sthat alright?” Jon nodded, and Georgie and Melanie shuffled away.

Martin started giggling again, and Jon turned back to him. “What?”

Martin's grin was broad and quite becoming. “There was only one bed.”

“Yeah, that’s why we’re on the couch,” Jon agreed, somewhat confused. He rose and started to assemble the pullout. Martin just stood to the side clutching the Admiral close. His face was mushed into the Admiral’s fur and both of their eyes were closed, clearly both enjoying the interaction immensely. Jon put the finishing touches on the assembled bed (i.e. he shoved a throw pillow to the side) and stared at the tableau. It was a lovely tableau, all soft and picturesque. The Admiral was purring gently, and Martin’s fingers occasionally rubbed a path into the Admiral’s side. Jon was so busy staring at Martin’s hands and the way they wove their way around the Admiral’s fur he didn’t notice Martin’s eyes flick open.

“What?” Martin’s voice came out a little muffled from behind the Admiral.

“Hm?”

Martin placed the Admiral on the floor and gave Jon an odd look. “You’re staring.”

“Just…” shrugged Jon. “You’re pretty. And nice. I’m really lucky to have you as my partner.” Jon let himself crumple onto the bed. He felt his eyes flicker. _Fuck_ he was tired. And drunk. There should be a word for that, he thought absently. Trunk. Driered? “I was mean to you when we first met,” he said. “I was so mean and you’re so nice and—”

Martin sat down at the foot of the bed. “It’s alright.”

“But it’s not! You don’t deserve someone mean as your partner.”

“I don’t have someone mean as my partner,” murmured Martin, sliding down next to him and looking Jon in the eyes. “I’ve got you.”

“This is what I mean!” Jon insisted. “You’re so nice, Martin! You’re so pretty and nice and soft and warm. I don’t deserve you.” Martin was quiet. They were, so close, and Martin reached out a hand to touch Jon’s cheek. There was something in Martin’s eye, a glimmer of something and for a moment Jon thought he was going to kiss him. Did Jon want Martin to kiss him? No, Jon didn't, but Drunk Jon did, just a little. Martin’s skin was so warm and so soft against his. He didn't melt into the touch so much as sagged into it. Drunk Jon wouldn't kiss him, even if he wanted to, just a little.

Martin didn't kiss him either. He just whispered to him, voice barely audible, “You deserve the world, Jon.”

Jon bit back a response, something sappy and ridiculous and true, like _you’re my world._

Martin slowly removed his hand from Jon’s cheek, and Drunk Jon ached for it to rest on his cheek again. Or maybe just Jon ached for it. There had always been something so grounding about Martin’s touches.

Jon watched Martin slowly fall asleep, listening to his breaths become long and shallow. 

If Jon were here and in control of himself he’d probably panic over the proximity, of the lack of professionalism and decorum, of the implications. But Jon was neither, and so Drunk Jon drifted off into the best sleep of his life, safe, warm, sure to remember none of this come morning, and blessedly surrounded by the faintest smell of cinnamon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm, can you taste the yearning? Also, I hope this heist is sufficiently heist-y. I watched Ocean's 11-13 as research, but still, the only previous experience I have writing heists is from a DnD campaign I ran. It involved a distraction and then someone grabbing the artifact they were stealing and just booking it. That was it. That was the heist. I feel like if nothing else this is a step up from that.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is dedicated to my asshole cat, Darwin, who made it his mission to prevent me from working on this chapter. I hope you're happy you stinky little trash man.
> 
> Next Chapter: Sasha uses Jon's inability to lie against him in the name of self-care, Jon and Martin fight a rug but it's all dramatic and romantic, and gay times are had by all  
> (When will the next chapter come out? Depends on how much you bully me into working on it in the comments. Seriously, fuck me up. But I promise there will be a next chapter, and that it will be just as dramatic and gay as the last arc finale (but happier this time I promise))


	7. Plan of Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lietners. Of course the books were fucking Leitners, because Jon would never be free of them. Jonathan Fanshaw’s description of von Closen’s body was still locked in his brain, and the thoughts of Melanie or Martin like that, insides covered with thousands and thousands of blandly staring eyes, was fueling him to go faster than he had ever run before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Listening: _Dark of the Matinee_ by Franz Ferdinand  
> For: Spooky Shit is Happening in the Institute Vibes
> 
> CW//
> 
> (oof this is a heavy one)
> 
> The Slaughter  
> The Lonely  
> Violence  
> The statement Elias shoves into Melanie's head and her reaction  
> The statement Elias shoves into Martin's head and his reaction  
> Blood  
> Strangulation  
> Guilt  
> Trauma  
> The boy who Mr. Spider ate instead of Jon's POV and what that entails (not graphic or anything, just a heads up if you understandably don't want to deal with child death)

If Jon didn’t stop pacing, he was going to wear a hole into the floor of the Archives.

He was waiting. And logically he knew that navigating Artifact Storage was going to be challenging, Martin and Melanie were going to have to be careful and cautious if they wanted to stay safe in there, but still, that knowledge did nothing to help the fact that Jon was waiting and he was tired of it.

He checked his phone again for the umpteenth time and glared at the barely moving clock on his lock screen. It had only been three minutes since he’d checked last. In that time he had walked his little path at least fifteen times and yet the white letters glowing up at him had the audacity to say that it had only been _three minutes!_ It was rude. It was annoying. Jon checked his phone again.

“I’m sorry,” called a familiar voice, “But you really can’t...be...here.” Sasha, dressed in...something fancy, Jon was brooding too much to properly care or take it in, crossed her arms as she recognized him. “Jon! Are you serious!”

“Sasha! I...what are you doing here?” asked Jon lamely, forcing himself to stop his pacing for a moment.

“Oh no, you first.”

“Fine.” Jon tugged at his fingers nervously. “I’m here as...moral support for a friend who's here.” Christ, he was an atrocious liar. If Martin were here he’d have been able to come up with something. If Martin were here Jon wouldn’t have even been caught because they’d have been out of the Institute already.

Sasha looked unconvinced. “Really.”

Jon swallowed and forced himself to drop his hands. “Yes. Georgie Barker? And Melanie King too I guess, but since I was here I thought—”

Sasha arched an eyebrow. “You’d steal back your file?”

“No, actually I was going to remove my cot,” Jon lied, wondering where in God’s name his words were coming from. “For good, though Melanie should be here by now. I can’t exactly climb those stairs in this.”

“Right.”

Jon tried at a smile. “And why are you here?”

“I just needed a break, honestly,” sighed Sasha, sagging onto one of the desks. “They’re awful up there. You said Georgie and Melanie are here? I wish I’d seen them.”

“Yes, but why are you here now?” Jon asked. “It’s a weekend. I’m fairly certain you’ve made your position on working past hours clear.”

“You can work late, Jon, just not all the time,” Sasha corrected pointedly. “You practically live here. And Elias makes the head of every department come to this stupid Ball. I don’t know why, but apparently, it’s a thing.”

“I doubt Gertrude ever went.”

Sasha snorted and unfolded her arms, letting them act as bracers against the desk as she leaned back. “True. You should see the way some of them look at me.”

“With fear and reverence?” asked Jon dryly.

Sasha rolled her eyes. “As befitting a glorified librarian. Did you need help with that cot?”

“I...yes,” stammered Jon, “but Melanie really should be getting here soon, so you don't have to—”

“It’s no trouble. Besides it’s an excuse to get out of these.” Sasha kicked her heels off, which made a satisfyingly heavy _thump_ on the ground, and started to make her way to the nearest ladder to the catwalks with Jon in tow. “So how’d you reckon I get this thing down?”

“I’m not sure actually.”

“How’d you get it up here anyway?”

Jon shrugged sheepishly. “I just sort of pulled it up with one arm as I climbed?”

“So there’s not a ramp down these things then,” Sasha muttered, mostly to herself it seemed, as she placed a foot on the first rung.

“I don’t think Jonah Magnus took wheelchair access into consideration when he made the catwalks.”

“That was rude of him.” Sasha put her hands in front of her on the ladder and paused a moment, considering. “I think I’m just going to push it down the hole.”

“What?” squawked Jon, but Sasha had already climbed the ladder with a speed Jon had been wholly unprepared for.

“It should be fine,” she urged, hoisting up the tail end of the cot and starting to push it towards the lip of the ladder. “It looks durable enough.”

“Sasha _what?”_

“It’ll be fine, Jon. Though I would back it up a bit.” Jon did so, though more on autopilot than as a conscious decision. There was a thunderous crash and then Sasha was next to him on the ground, beaming like a lighthouse. She clapped him on the shoulder. “See? Durable.”

Jon just sort of gaped at the cot lying face down and admittedly unharmed on the floor of the Archives. “I guess!” he spluttered out.

“So where are you putting this thing anyway?” Sasha asked conversationally like she had not just tossed it down a hole like a madwoman.

“I...just...Martin’s car I suppose.” Jon waved offhandedly at the door, eyes still on the cot. “It’s out back.”

“Martin’s here?”

Jon tore his eyes away to Sasha. “Yes, he came with us.”

“Hm.” Sasha furrowed her brow and appeared to be ruminating on something. “Fine,” she finally said. “If...I give you a file to give Martin can you promise to not be weird about it?”

“What do you mean?” asked Jon, definitely not being weird about it, completely properly masking his excitement like a normal person who was a normal amount of absolutely ecstatic at the prospect to do his job again.

“Never mind,” sighed Sasha, rolling her eyes. “Look, Martin’s been asking for this file for ages and I finally found it. I might as well give it to you now.” She handed it to him, and Jon could have sung.

“What file is it?” Jon asked conversationally, opening the file slowly, casually, like a completely normal and not weird person.

“#8312111. Normally I’d just give it to him Monday, but he’s been so bloody determined to find it I might as well hand it off to you.” She raised a brow at him. “Anyway, it’s for you, right?”

“What?”

“The statement’s from 1831, Jon, I’m not stupid. It’s related to the von Closen one, right?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Thank you, Sasha. For this. And for your...help with the cot.”

“Yeah well, a month’s suspension might have been a little much,” she said, waving away his thanks.

“No, it’s alright.” He looked down and spoke as quietly as he could manage. “Thank you.” It was more of an exhalation than proper words.

Sasha’s face lit up with amusement. “What?”

“Thank you, Sasha,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “You were...you were right. I may have been...slightly overworking myself.”

Sasha gawked at him. “Huh. I owe Tim five quid.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I should probably get back up to all that.” She looked up above them with a long-suffering sigh. “See you next week, Jon.”

“Right. Thank you again.” Sasha had already turned to go, but she flashed a peace sign at him as means of goodbye and Jon didn’t even roll his eyes. He just looked back down at the file he had clutched in his hands and began to read.

* * *

Jon had lost his (Georgie’s) shoes a hallway ago but it had done nothing to temper the speed at which he was running towards Artifact Storage. Lietners. Of course the books were fucking Leitners, because Jon would never be free of them. Jonathan Fanshaw’s description of von Closen’s body was still locked in his brain, and the thoughts of Melanie or Martin like that, insides covered with thousands and thousands of blandly staring eyes, was fueling him to go faster than he had ever run before.

He had tripped, only once, on the long floor-length dress he had insisted on, and he had quickly bundled up the sides of it in tight fists and hitched up his skirt like a rambunctious character in an Austen novel. He probably looked ridiculous, but he didn’t care. He just needed them to be safe. Less than an hour ago he had been hoping that they would have already gotten the books, but now he was what, hoping they were lost? That wasn’t a very encouraging thought. Would that even be better? 

The door to Artifact Storage looked like an airlock, but it was far less imposing slightly ajar, and Jon slipped through it relatively painlessly. And that just left combing through Artifact Storage until he found them, alive or eye-riddled or otherwise. 

Despite how it looked, there was actually an organizational system for Artifact Storage, or at least that’s what Sonia insisted. Supposedly, they were loosely grouped by what they did, Artifacts placed around like the worst Antique shop, some on display, some in ominous heavy black boxes. It was like a color wheel, Sonia had said once to someone complaining about the disorganization. You can’t draw up hard borders, or you’ll lose some of the nuances of the colors. Spring green is called green, but it’s more yellow than anything else. But if you group all the greens, you’re cutting Spring green off from its yellow roots.

There was a general section for eyes and eye-related items, one for knowledge and knowing things, and based on the original statement that was where their little group had decided the books ought to be. It was where Martin and Melanie had targeted their search, though whether or not they really were there Jon couldn’t say. Jon just started walking, and he hoped it was in the right direction. It wasn’t like there were any convenient signs in Artifact Storage.

And so he ran. Past a closed cube of water with an inexplicably living goldfish swimming lazily inside, past a torch that’s beam was a void and so black it made Jon’s eyes hurt to look at it, past a black satin hat with part of what was unmistakably a human scalp still fixed to the bottom of it.

“Martin! Melanie!” He was running past a painting, expensive looking and bourque, that pulsated gently with a pale purple glow.

“Martin!” There was a short card table covered in dice of all makes and models, some chunky red plastic, some sleek Vegas-style gambling dice, some that looked burned at the edges though that might have been just the style the dice maker was going for. A bright yellow sticky note sat in the middle with the label “Bad dice; probably do something fucked up if you roll them,” and Jon was sure as he passed them that Sonia did not know it was there.

“Melanie!” A chair, old and clearly only valuable because of it, that Jon was sure someone sat in until he turned his head to look at it properly. 

And so he kept running, passed sewing kits and cups and toothbrushes and a too-large taxidermy goose wearing, for some reason, sunglasses, until—

“Martin!” There he was, Martin Blackwood, his partner, his _friend_ , standing in the middle of an ornate handwoven rug. And, at least from a cursory glance, not covered in eyes. The eyes Martin did have, those lovely hazel things that crinkled at the corners ever so slightly when he smiled, were off though. Different. They were watery and blank. Jon rushed over to him. “Martin! Are you alright? Where’s Melanie?”

Martin barely seemed to register his words. When he spoke his voice was shattered and raw. “She...hates me…”

“What? Melanie? She doesn’t hate you, Martin.” Jon tried to take a step forward, raising a hand to what, comfort Martin? Or at least to try to do so, though it hardly mattered because as Jon extended a hand he met a strange resistance.

It probably shouldn’t have surprised Jon that it was not an ordinary rug.

It was ornate, yes, but more than that it was _alive_. Its border was eyes, numerous and ringing the border and moving, slowly moving around it, and intermittently winking smugly at Jon as it went. And that was all well and good, a touch odd maybe, but it didn’t hold a candle to the rug’s center. The center was fog, stylized and intricate, and it seemed to emanate from Martin, standing at its center, ghosting across the fabric in a gentle float. But that wasn’t what stopped Jon’s hand. 

No, that was the dust.

Dust, a proper cloud of it, surrounded Matin. It moved like the carpet’s fog pattern, all slow and gentle, but when Jon tried to reach Martin, tried to touch him, tried to comfort him, it rose like a vampire from a crypt and began to swirl around him, thick and firm and impenetrable. It stopped Jon’s hand where it was, and he was barely able to insert more than a fingertip into it before the dust pushed him back.

Martin didn’t seem to even notice. He was clearly crying now, tears cutting a streak down his dust-caked cheeks. “I’ve got no one…”

“Martin, don’t be absurd,” said Jon, glaring at the dust storm around him and trying again, this time managing up to the middle of his finger through sheer force of will. “This stupid rug’s cursed, remember? We’re in Artifact Storage, everything here’s cursed. Melanie doesn’t hate you. And...and you’ve got me,” he added, letting his hand drop a moment and staring at the painfully unresponsive Martin. He looked down and cleared his throat. “A—and Georgie. And the Admiral, and Tim and Sasha. You’re not alone.”

“All I ever did was love her and she hates me.”

“Martin what are you talking about?” 

The dust was swirling around Martin faster now, pushing Jon back faster than before. “I’m her son and she wouldn’t care if I died in here,” Martin croaked.

Oh. 

_Shit._

“But I would, Martin,” said Jon. Dust be damned, if it was making Martin feel like that, Jon was going to get him out of here. He’d used a cursed vacuum to do so if that’s what it took. “I...you’re not allowed to die on me. We’ve survived worse than a fucking rug!” Jon grit his teeth so hard they hurt and he plunged his hand into the dust maelstrom. It was an awful, laborious process; the dust was fast and firm and it felt like shoving his hand, then his arm into wet cement. But for a moment Jon’s hand grazed Martin’s arm. And the dust shoved his back quickly and with a vengeance so Jon almost toppled into a bloodstained fountain pen on an equally bloodstained pedestal.

But for a moment, there was clarity in Martin’s eyes. 

Martin’s voice trembled something awful. “J—Jon? Is that you?” 

“Martin!” Jon scrambled over to him and the dust cloud surrounding him. “Yes!”

Martin frowned and glanced around. “Jon? Can you hear me?”

Jon’s continued reaching for him was rebuffed by the dust again and again, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was Martin, suit and face covered in dust and grime, expression scared and searching. “Yes, Martin I can hear you!” 

Martin raised a hand towards him, eyes still glassy and blank, face still fearful. “Jon?”

A question. And there was nothing that could have stopped Jon from answering, not cursed dust or cursed rugs or the weight of the whole cursed universe. Jon’s hand went into the storm and in and in and in until he was in the storm itself. His eyes stung but he didn’t let them close. 

“Martin!” Jon shouted through the wind, and dust streamed into his open mouth but he didn’t care, he just reached some more until he felt it. Felt _him_. Felt Martin’s hand in his, and when he did, when he felt that familiar warmth, albeit and little filmy from the filth, the world seemed to stop.

The dust froze in its hurricane spin and became once again what it had always been: dust. Just dust, and it fell back into the rug around them like the grimiest snow. And that was it. They had done it, Martin was here and whole and in his arms, because the moment he was able Jon pulled him into a tight embrace. They stayed like that a while, Jon’s face smashing into Martin’s collarbone, arms wrapped around his middle, Martin’s head pressed into Jon’s hair clutching him back.

Finally, Jon pulled away more reluctantly than he had ever done anything in his life to examine Martin’s face. It was dirty and cold and tear-stained, but it was the most beautiful thing Jon had ever seen in his life. “Christ, Martin are you alright?” Jon cupped Martin’s soiled cheek in his own grimey hand and rubbed away a tear track with his thumb. “I thought I lost you to this _thing_. What happened?”

Martin leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. “The rug, it...I didn’t notice but I stumbled onto it and…” He opened them and his lips quivered. “Jon, it showed me things.”

“What sort of things?” Jon asked softly. He kicked himself, and added hastily, “I mean, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to I understand but—”

“No, it’s...alright. I guess I always knew it deep down, but it’s different when you’re seeing it.”

Jon’s voice was quiet, gentle, or as gentle as he could make it. “Seeing what?”

“My mother she—” Martin let out a mirthless laugh that turned into a sob.

“Martin…”

“It doesn’t matter. Not, right now. We’ve got to find Melanie.” Martin turned away and started walking.

Jon stumbled forward, still sort of dazed, and followed him. “R—right. Where did you last see her?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted as they passed an empty and broken picture frame. “We got separated and then I stumbled onto that rug, It didn't even see it, I mean—”

“It’s alright,” Jon soothed. “You’re safe now.” Jon’s hands twitched towards him, begging to hold Martin’s hand in his again, but something stopped him. Or rather, he stopped himself. He had held Martin before and he’d been fine, but now it just seemed...wrong. Unprofessional. He bit his lip. “We’ll find her.”

They continued on through Artifact Storage in silence, the only sound being their muffled footsteps and the occasional whir of an in-motion artifact.

“Jon?” 

Martin’s voice startled him away from an ostentatious wooden clock that ticked backward and was, strangely enough, three minutes off. “Hm?”

“Why are you here? I mean, not that I’m not glad you came,” Martin added, blushing slightly and glancing away from a moment, “but weren’t you supposed to be in the Archives?”

“Yes well, I ran into Sasha.”

“Oh.” Martin’s eyes bulged. “Oh no.”

“Yes. It’s fine, that’s not why I came down here,” Jon explained. “She found that statement, the one you read before? #8312111, statement of Jonathan Fanshawe.”

“Really?” A smile played on Martin’s lips, the first Jon had seen since Martin had left for Artifact Storage with Melanie. “What did it say?”

Jon wished he could smile with him. “It’s not the tomb that’s cursed, Martin. Or, maybe it is and that’s why—the books. They’re Leitners. Bad ones.”

The smile on Martin’s face fell. “We need to find Melanie.” There was a scream in the distance.

“Speak of the devil,” muttered Jon, and the pair of them took off running, careful not to lose each other as they weaved and bobbed around pedestals and tables and crates, and even more careful not to touch anything. 

Jon caught a glimpse of turquoise and tawny hair and he tugged Martin over. “Melanie! There you are—oh.” 

Melanie was crumpled in on herself. She was standing, but her torso was curled into a ball, tight and trembling with tension and the uncomfortably familiar sounds of vicious, choking sobs.

Martin inhaled sharply and took a trepidatious step towards her, hand outstretched. “Melanie?” 

Melanie’s head snapped up, quick as a whip. “You.” Her eyes were narrowed sharply at Martin, and Jon could just make out a ring of red around them like she had been crying. Her cheeks said she had been, but the red ring around her eyes was different. It was too controlled, too neat like someone had taken a marker and traced the shape of her eyes in red. 

“You left me down here,” continued Melanie, body slowly straightening as she crept forward towards Martin. Her hands were fists, small and tight, and in her right hand, she was clutching something small and sharp and shiny. A scalpel, Jon realized. “Alone with these _things_. This is your fault. If you had been here—” 

Martin stumbled back. “I got lost, I didn’t mean—”

Jon cut him off and glared at Melanie. “It’s not his fault.”

Melanie’s head snapped over to face him, apparently only now realizing he was even there. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m...I’m here to get you out of this place,” stammered Jon, faltering, “The books are dangerous. We need to leave.”

“So this was for nothing then?” Melanie cried, voice laden with emotion. “I come in here and get myself cut on this thing for what?” She slashed at Martin suddenly and without warning, and he just barely managed to dodge her strike. 

The scalpel was wickedly sharp if the way the light hit the blade was any indication, and it was already stained red with what Jon presumed was Melanie’s blood. “You got cut by that?” he gasped.

“So what if I did?” snapped Melanie, eyes glinting at him menacingly. “Are you going to laugh, Sims? Clumsy Melanie can’t pick a lock, can’t avoid getting cut by a cursed scalpel.” She slashed at him next, bringing it down in a vicious arc Jon only just managed to avoid. 

He backed into Martin and nudged him with an elbow. “Martin, get Georgie.”

“What? I’m not leaving you, Jon,” Martin said.

“I’ll be fine,” Jon urged. “Just go quickly and stay safe.”

Martin squeezed Jon’s shoulder. “You too.” 

Martin backed up slowly and then began to dash out of sight. Jon watched him go. Which was a stupid choice. Most choices Jon made were. If not for the guttural roar that ripped its way from Melanie’s throat, Jon would have been utterly blind-sighted by her lunge. She slammed into him, and he just barely managed to catch her wrists before she succeeded in jamming the scalpel into Jon’s chest. Jon was not a strong man, and the added weight of Melanie sent him toppling backward. They slammed into a pedestal, sending whatever was on it toppling to the ground with a sickening crunch. And then they were on the floor, Jon just barely managing to keep her elevated and off of him.

“Do you know what happened when clumsy little Melanie cut herself, Jon?” Melanie spat down at him. “Do you know what it showed me?” Jon managed a grunt as a response. “It told me how my father died. It wasn’t a fire. I always thought there was no worse way to die than in a fire, even if they told me he was dead before his skin bubbled and boiled and turned black and charred.” Melanie let out a hollow laugh. “I was wrong.”

Words pushed themselves from between Jon’s fiercely gritted teeth. “Snap out of it!”

“What do you think I’m trying to do!” Melanie cried.

Jon kneed her in the stomach and rolled away. He stumbled to his feet. “What?”

Melanie wasn’t down for long. Actually, she popped back up like a stabby Jack in the box and slashed at him. “If I can just—” _Slash_. “—ut you then maybe I won’t have to know anymore!” _Slash_. “If I can just—” _Slash and — “—_ah!” 

The scalpel raked across Jon’s shoulder, and he was disappointed to learn that he was correct in his assessment of the blade's sharpness. The scalpel barely touched him, barely made contact with his skin, and yet it left a painful red gash in his shoulder. He lifted a trembling hand to the wound; you had to apply pressure to injuries like that he remembered. He felt a sickly heat drip between his fingers. 

“Oh,” he said, and everything went white.

* * *

His name was Bryce.

He wasn’t a bad kid, not really. He was just that, a kid, stupid and meaner than he should be to the Sims boy, and there was not an excuse for that, not really. If Bryce was just a kid then Jon was just a baby, and he had no excuse for being cruel to him. 

It’s just whenever Bryce saw him he was reading. And always a different book, all thick and well worn, like he’d read it a thousand times faster than Bryce would ever be able to finish the prologue. Bryce wasn’t stupid; really, he wasn’t. No matter what his father told him through tobacco-stained teeth, or what teachers didn’t say through plastered on smiles, he wasn’t stupid. It was just...hard, sometimes, okay? Hard to focus, hard to care, hard to make his mind take in the words all crammed together too-small on the page.

And yet it seemed no trouble for Jon.

Jon—stupid, annoying, baby Jon who always was wandering around with his nose in a book, who was always asking prying questions that he had no right nosing into, whose eyes glinted up at Bryce from behind too-large glasses with an awful prying gaze, reading him like one of his thick worn books and _judging_ him—never seemed to have any problems with books like Bryce had.

And Bryce didn’t mean to be wretched to the boy, honest. It was just that he was always at the Sims house. He supposed that couldn’t be helped, it was his house after all, but that didn’t change the fact that every time Bryce came over to help the Old Lady out around the house, there he was underfoot. 

_Why are you here again_ , he’d ask, staring owlishly up at Bryce from his place on the ladder as he cleaned out the too-full gutters of the Sims house. _Aren’t you supposed to turn it the other way? You turned it the other way last time,_ he’d say, peering down at Bryce from his place under the sink, heavy, rusted wrench clutched in a white-knuckled grip as he wrestled with an unmoving pipe. _How come you aren’t at school, isn’t it a school day for big kids,_ he’d croon over to Bryce from his hold on the couch, arms straining under its bulk.

Always with the incessant questions, always with the incessant reading, always with his incessant presence. 

So Bryce snapped sometimes. Jon would ask a stupid question and Bryce would shout at him. Or he’d be reading one of those thick worn books and Bryce would throw it, or hold it over his head where Jon’s little arms couldn’t even dream of reaching. And it didn’t make Jon stop, and it didn’t make Bryce feel better, but it made him feel in control. Strong. Like he mattered, like he was better at something than this stupid little kid and his stupid little book and his stupid little questions.

So when Bryce ran into the little twerp in the park, it didn’t even take a moment’s thought to snatch the book from his tiny kiddy fingers. And when he saw the book he was reading, something chunky and big lettered and _babyish_ , well. Bryce hadn’t laughed so hard and so genuinely in a very long time.

The problem with those chunky kiddy books is that they’re made so that anyone can read them. The words are big and round and far apart and so when Bryce took a glance at the book he couldn’t help but read a page even at a glance. And then another page. And another.

Bryce did not read the bookplate, that small and scribbled thing in the front of the book, but that did not matter. It was not like it was Jurgen Leitner's fault that he was reading, that he was walking, that he was raising the book to that innocuous door and knocking once, twice.

No, when the door swung open and the long, black, hair leg stretched out to greet him, when that massive serrated maw opened wider and wider to accommodate him, always too big for his age they said, when it took its first bite and Bryce screamed as only a child could, he knew _exactly_ whose fault it was.

Whose fault it always was.

And Jon knew it too.

* * *

And Jon was on the floor of Artifact Storage, crying and bleeding into the floor, crumpled on the ground like a child with a poor hiding spot in Hide and Seek. There was a mirror on the floor beside him, shattered into a hundred fractured shards, and when he glanced at it he could barely see himself in it. But he could see his eyes. Oh, Jon could see his eyes just fine, and what’s more than that he could see the red ringing them. He pulled himself to his feet. Melanie was talking, though he couldn’t really hear the words. It was just noise really, just sounds slowly coming into focus like an arduously tuned radio. She was upset, that much was clear even if her words weren’t yet, though what reason she could have to be upset he didn’t know. Was she just stabbed by a friend? Was she responsible for someone’s death?

“—didn’t it work?” Melanie was saying. “It should have worked, why the _fuck_ can I still see…” 

She took a deep watery breath, and Jon took that as his cue. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

“It was supposed to work, it was supposed to stop!” Melanie wailed, ignoring him. Jon couldn't have that. He’d asked her a question, hadn’t he? It was rude to ignore people when they asked you a question.

 _“What the fuck is wrong with you?”_ Jon shoved her over and he fell into a table covered in spoons, which clattered noisily to the ground as Melanie and the table fell. “I come in here to fucking _save_ you and you _stab_ me?”

Jon walked over to her on the floor and she sliced up at him. He lurched back, just narrowly avoiding getting cut again. “Save me? From what? What can be worse than this?”

Melanie jumped to her feet and swiped at him again with her scalpel. He spun away from the blade like he was in some sort of mad dance, his dress spinning with him. He glared at her. “Having your bloody organs filled with eyes!” 

Melanie paused and furrowed her brow at him. “What are you talking about?” 

Jon took that opportunity to punch her. It wasn’t a very good punch, and his knuckles stung painfully, but damn if it hadn’t felt good, and damn if it hadn’t hurt his foe, Melanie, he remembered.

“The books, the stupid fucking books!” He spat, dodging another swipe from the scalpel. He tried to hit her again but missed. “The reason we’re here in the first place! Remember? For your little show?” Christ, he missed his axe. He hadn’t known how to use it very well, and it had been heavy and unwieldy, but it had felt good in his hands. And besides, Melanie would take far more damage from an axe than the werewolf had. (The werewolf had had a name, hadn’t it? It had been an ill-fitting name, it hadn’t matched its owner. What was it?) 

“‘For my little show?’” Melanie didn’t slash at him this time, no, she’d moved to shank him with her scalpel. The hooked part of it tore at the stomach of his dress. “It’s Georgie’s show too, you arrogant prick!”

“It’s trite, is what it is!” Another slice and the hole widened. Jon didn’t even bother swiping at her, he just needed to keep dodging. She was going to get his organs if she kept up like this, pierce something a little more fragile than his shoulder. “Cold spots and faulty data and the same violin score every budget horror movie’s been using for the past decade.”

Melanie let out another guttural cry and lunged at him, but Jon spun again, spun with more grace than he would normally have possessed. As he spun he shoved her to the ground, hands tight around its throat. This thing, this enemy, was in his power now and so he took its throat and squeezed. He wasn’t strong, and he bemoaned that fact, though it didn’t matter because he was _winning_ , winning against his loathsome adversary.

And then he wasn’t. Someone with strong deft hands, hands so unlike his own was picking him up and pulling him off of the thing under him. The hands were warm, so familiarly warm. He knew those hands. They were...Martin’s hands, he realized. How could he forget? They were soft and warm and comforting in a way that made his insides feel all squirmy, though not unpleasantly so.

His opponent on the floor stood shakily and coughed. It took a step forward and growled at them. And then it slashed at Martin.

At Martin, sweet and strong and kind and beautiful Martin, his Martin, his...his _partner._ And it slashed its scalpel at him, tried to _hurt_ him. How dare it? It had no right! No one did!

Jon squirmed in Martin’s arms and kicked at it. “Don’t you touch him!” 

Martin was pulling him away from it. He shouldn’t, Jon was protecting him and no one would ever hurt Martin again. If he just let him go, let him at it, he would be safe. Martin lowered Jon to the ground, and he couldn’t see it anymore. There was just Martin gently holding his wrists.

“Jon, it’s alright,” soothed Martin. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not! She tried to hurt you!” Jon insisted. “Twice.” He’d try and jerk away to find...her if only Martin wasn’t holding his wrists in such a feather-light grip. If he tried to jerk away Martin's hands would fall away.

“I’m fine, Jon. Look at me.” Martin lifted a hand from Jon’s wrist and used it to lift Jon’s chin up to meet his eyes. Martin’s eyes...there were no words to describe them. Objectively you could, bright and shining and brown and a million other words, but they wouldn’t mean anything, they wouldn’t even begin to express the wonder and the everything that was Martin’s eyes. And in those eyes, bright and reflective, Jon could see himself, dirty, bloody, hair akimbo and glasses askew, and he looked tired. So very, very tired. “I’m alright,” repeated Martin. “Everything is alright. Calm down.”

“I’m—” Jon was shaking. When had he started shaking? His hands were practically vibrating and he gripped Martin’s jacket, probably wrinkling it something awful. 

He had looked so dashing in it before. He still did now, of course, even all covered in dust and blood. But still, three hours ago when they’d all been in Georgie’s flat, dressed to the nines and even Jon looking nice, nicer than he had in a good long while, he had been a vision. People talked about suits, about how there was something special when people wore them, and Jon had never understood it, not really. But then, looking at Martin and his sheepish grin looking like he’d stepped out of an awards show, Jon had understood. And Martin had looked at him in his far too large loaned dress like Jon was something special. Like he’d looked half as lovely as Martin was. It was the same look Martin was giving him now.

“I’m sorry, Martin, I—” Jon’s hands, balled into fists and clutching Martin’s jacket, trembled, or maybe just his body trembled and his hands were pulled along into doing the same. Martin gently touched his back, easing Jon into his shoulder, and a dam in Jon broke. Awful, shuddering sobs poured out of him, and Martin held him anyway, running fingers gently through Jon’s hair. Finally, Jon pulled himself together enough to extract his face from Martin’s shoulder. “Did you—did you get Georgie?”

“She grabbed Melanie after I grabbed you,” said Martin. “Or she should have.”

“Oh, God Melanie.” It was like he’d been hit by a sandbag. Melanie. Christ, what had he done? It was fuzzy in his brain and too bright, like an overexposed image but everywhere in his mind. He pushed it down. Guilt would have to wait, just for a moment. “Melanie’s still got that scalpel, if she cuts Georgie like she cut me—”

Martin nodded and pulled Jon to his feet. “Let’s go.” 

It wasn’t hard to find them. Georgie and Melanie were standing about two feet apart, circling each other. Georgie looked the same as ever, her dress shimmering and glinting like the scalpel still firmly clutched in Melanie’s hand.

“Mel, this isn’t you,” Georgie was saying.

Melanie sliced at her. “Stop calling me that!” she growled back.

Georgie faltered a moment. “I—fine. Mel...anie. Please. You’re better than this. You’re more than just anger and hurt.”

“Am I?” Melanie demanded, partially obscured from Jon’s line of sight by a large oscillating fan. He scooted just a bit to the left. “Am I really? Because it doesn’t feel that way.”

“Because you got cut on a cursed object!”

“Even before that!” insisted Melanie, knuckles on the hand gripping the scalpel turning white. “It’s all I’ve had. It was how I got my show, how I kept it together when I lost it, how I keep going after comments upon comments calling what I do, what I love doing stupid and _trite_ and...and I learn _this_ , what this scalpel told me when I cut myself about my dad and do you know what I have, Georgie? I have the anger, just like I always do. I have the anger and the hurt and the numb that comes with it.”

Georgie smiled, only slightly, eyes shining just a little. “But you don’t just have to have that.”

Melanie relaxed her grip on the scalpel. “Do you really think that?”

“I know it. You have me too, Melanie.” Georgie took a step forward, not tentatively but sure and hopeful. Jon didn’t know how she did that, how she went about with that confidence. “You _always_ have me. Always and forever.”

“I…” Melanie shuddered and began folding in on herself again. Georgie took another step forward, and then another until she was at Melanie’s side, standing there like that’s where she was born to be. She placed a hand on Melanie’s shoulder and Melanie snapped back to attention, slashing Georgie's arm with the scalpel. 

Jon inhaled sharply, waiting for her to scream or cry or crumple to the ground like a marionette with cut strings. But she didn’t. Of course, she didn't. She was Georgie Barker, the fearless woman. She hissed in pain a little but she didn’t flinch back. 

“Always and forever,” Georgie repeated. “No matter what.” 

And Melanie started to cry. Real, heavy, massive tears like raindrops pouring from her stormcloud eyes. The scalpel clattered to the ground, abandoned, forgotten. “I’m sorry, Georgie, I didn't mean to...your arm.”

“It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” Georgie smiled, really smiled this time, and cupped Melanie’s cheek in her hand. Then she moved her hand up, guiding Melanie's chin until their faces formed a perfect line. She spoke again, in barely a whisper. “I’ve got you back.” 

And Melanie closed the distance, standing ever so slightly on her toes to reach, but not for long as Georgie lowered her head, hair curtaining Melanie’s face until Melanie reached a hand back to brush it behind Georgie’s ear. They parted after a very long, and if Jon was being honest a very uncomfortable moment.

Georgie grinned down at Melanie again, her smile going all slanted and wonky and so utterly besotted. She lowered her hand down to hold Melanie’s, and Melanie rubbed the back of her hand as a matching grin wormed its way across her own face. 

Georgie nodded towards the exit. “Let's get out of here.”

* * *

Jon always forgot how uncomfortable the waiting room chairs in the A&E were. Every time without fail he came and sat down on one he was struck with a sudden _oh right I hate this_ and would then spend the next hour or so slowly bleeding out and fidgeting in an incredibly uncomfortable chair. He’d remembered this time as he wedged himself in as comfortable a position he could arrange himself in, sitting for the second time that day in the waiting room. Melanie still wasn’t out yet.

Jon fidgeted in his seat and nudged Martin, sitting next to him, with his elbow. “You’re weirdly good at coming up with excuses for supernatural injuries for medical staff,” Jon noted.

Martin put down the magazine that he’d found on the end table next to them and shrugged. “What can I say, I’ve had practice.”

Jon blinked. “Is that a joke?”

“Hm?”

“Like medical practice?” 

Martin snorted and rubbed his face. “It is now.” The smile on his face was infectious, and Jon let out a laugh.

“I say this is that last case we end in the A&E, deal?”

“Deal,” Martin agreed. “Though you’re the one most likely to break it.”

“It’s hardly my fault I’m so bloody danger prone,” grumbled Jon, shifting in his seat again. “I’m like a supernatural punching bag.”

Martin cocked his head at Jon, a smile on his lips, though his eyes were serious.“Try not to get hurt anymore though, okay? I can’t take the stress.”

Jon gave up his struggle with his chair and just slumped into Martin’s side. At least his head would be comfortable. “Aw, do you care about me?”

“Yes, Jon! So much!” Martin exclaimed, staring incredulously at Jon. “I feel like we’ve established this.”

“It’s still nice to hear.” Jon chewed his lip and let his gaze drift over the large painting adjacent to them. It was abstract and amateurish, and it reminded Jon of the beach at night. He rather liked it. That was a bad sign. “And I may be on...quite a few painkillers. My brain feels...purple.”

Martin let out a laugh. “What does that even mean?”

Jon shrugged. “I’m not sure.” His head hurt. Sort of. It felt fuzzy and wrong and undoubtedly purple. Jon snorted. “That’ll show Georgie. Who can’t be on drugs now?”

Martin rested his head on Jon’s again, also staring at the painting. “It’s a shame about your dress though.”

“Well it is Georgie’s, technically,” said Jon, looking down at the tattered gown, now streaked with grime and gore. “She knew what she was getting into loaning it to me.”

“I guess. But still. You looked nice in it.” Jon glanced up to Martin who blushing profusely, eyes firmly locked on the painting now.

Jon looked down at the ground and felt his own cheek grow warm. “I could say the same about your suit. You, um, also looked nice in it. And I covered it in blood.”

“That’s not really your fault.”

“It’s _my_ blood.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Yes, you’ve truly inconvenienced me by getting hurt again and covering my cheap suit in a little bit of blood.” Jon laughed despite himself, and Martin followed suit.

Georgie and Melanie chose then to make their entrance. Melanie was slumped into Georgie’s side, and Georgie had an arm around her. “What are you two laughing about?” she asked.

“I don’t even care,” groaned Melanie, sounding blessedly like herself, albeit a little groggy. “I need to sleep for...forever.”

“Honestly, me too,” agreed Georgie. “Jon?”

Jon straightened, extricating himself from Martin’s side. “Probably.”

“Good thing I’m driving then,” sighed Martin. 

They all shambled to the car, walking like the living dead. Jon certainly felt dead on his feet. He practically melted into the front seat of Martin’s car. Melanie, for her part, buckled herself in and then instantly passed out before Martin even started the car.

The car ride was quiet. There wasn’t much to say, not now. Lights flashed and flickered past in the windows as they passed them, the bumps of the car as it bounced its way down the roads of London slowly lulling Jon to sleep.

“This is going to be such a weird episode.” Georgie leaned into the space between Jon and Martin’s seats, jostling Jon awake as she did so.

“You’re still making it an episode then?” asked Martin, softly.

Georgie nodded. “Might as well get a use out of all this.”

Jon shifted in his seat, neck and back popping slightly as he did so. “I suppose. What’s even going to be in it? Breaking into the Magnus Institute? Getting cursed?”

Georgie let out a breathy laugh as she sank back into her seat. “Something like that.” 

The conversation petered out, and eventually, quiet snores from the backseat told Jon that Georgie had drifted off. It took Jon longer to fall back asleep again, but he did eventually. There was a part of him as he started to go, that was sad. Sad with the knowledge that when he woke up again he wouldn’t do so next to Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA TECHNICALLY THIS IS ON TIME FUCK YES I DID IT!!!  
> If you like the objects in Artifact Storage, you have my beta, my mom, and my brother to thank for them! Mostly by beloved beta Rippleskip who came up with a majority of the items and wrote that lovely sticky note for the dice. My mom helped come up with the rug despite never having listened to a single episode of TMA, so that process was fun. ("It should probably have something to do with eyes too." "What is it with you and eyes?"). My brother was there when I shouted for a random object, he said oscillating fan and I was like sure.  
> Also, I feel like I should mention now that Jon getting his scars despite not being the Archivist in this universe is not because Elias is scheming or whatever (Elias probably won't even be in this because I hate him and not including him in your fan fiction is self care), Jon is just the most unlucky man alive. He's 25% impulsiveness, 25% protection instincts, and 50% negative luck stats. Basically what I'm saying is he's basically Magnus Burnsides if Travis rolled like Clint.
> 
> Next Chapter: Martin does some mild breaking and entering, Jon accepts a helping hand, and a mysterious guest worms her way into our hearts and flesh.


	8. Regarding a Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, okay!” said Martin, holding up his hands in surrender. And he smiled, jokingly, half-jokingly, adorably. “Would it help if I held your hand?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Listening: _Arms Tonight_ by Mother Mother  
> For: I Have a More Applicable Song for this Chapter, but it Works Better for the Next One, so This Song is Good and Sort of Works I Guess Vibes
> 
> CW//
> 
> Canon typical worms  
> Canon typical Corruption horror

Sasha James was a lot of things. She was funny, and pragmatic, and as lactose intolerant as she needed to be in the moment. She was a connoisseur of box wine, a master of all games except poker (but only against Tim; she could never keep a poker face around him), an enthusiast of bad American reality TV, and above all else Sasha was clever.

Everyone said it, and among her virtues, it was the one she prized the most. Clever: not just smart but able to use it. And she did use it. Sasha was, as Tim insisted on calling her in whatever accent that was supposed to be, a hacker, and a rather good one at that. She was good with numbers and their usage. _Very_ good with numbers. Banned at a handful of casinos and garage casino nights good with numbers. 

She was caring and captivating, good with people until she wasn’t, rational, sarcastic and only occasionally tetchy, confident and only slightly arrogant, unforgettable and indelible.

Yes, Sasha James was a great many things, but very rarely was she _baffled_.

But now, here, staring at a worse-for-wear Jon and Martin from across her desk, all of Sasha’s cleverness fled from her, leaving her with only the bafflement.

The way they’d come in hadn’t helped. Returning as abruptly as they’d left two weeks ago, one minute Sasha had been rattling off some final notes into the tape recorder in the relative tranquility and stillness of her office, and the next there they were, covered in grime and sweat and slamming a pale blue Tupperware container of _worms_ onto a statement. 

They were sitting now, and staring blankly at Sasha, waiting. 

They really did look awful. Jon was covered in bandages and plasters, standing out a grimey white and beige on his skin, and more so against the salt and pepper stubble on his face. His hair looked longer, though that might just have been that this was the first time Sasha had ever seen it this messy. Usually, it was slick and styled, clean and professional, but now? He looked like he’d just walked out a wind tunnel. And he was wearing Martin’s clothes. Again. They hung off of him almost comically, revealing a bony shoulder wrapped in yet more bandages and a thin scar across its collarbone. It looked somewhat recent. When had he been cut like that?

Martin was a mess too, though he did look a far sight better. He was far more clean-shaven for one and in his own clothes. He was also blessedly free of the bandages snaking their way across Jon’s body. Still, though, his clothes were rumpled and creased and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. The deep bags under both of their eyes were less the plastic grocery sort and more propper duffles.

And Sasha just stared at them, at her assistants, her _friends_ , and she had nothing to say. She opened and closed her mouth a few times but no words would come out.

“So I take it you weren’t on holiday then?” she managed lamely after far too long.

Jon let out a snort, which turned to a harsh, barking laugh, unlike anything Sasha had ever heard from him (not that Sasha heard Jon laugh very much). He glanced at Martin who joined him, and they were overtaken with peals of manic laughter tearing shakily from their throats. Sasha cleared her throat, and they settled down.

“No,” said Jon, recollecting himself. “We were most certainly not on holiday.”

“Where were you then?” Sasha asked, nervously tapping the pen in her hand on her desk. It was a good pen, fluid and black, and it never smudged. She was going to break it if she kept smacking it against the antediluvian wood of her desk. She kept tapping. “You’ve been gone for two weeks.”

“Martin’s flat.” Sasha’s eyes went wide at Jon’s words, but he just shook his head tiredly. “I guarantee you whatever you’re thinking is not what happened.”

“There was a woman,” Martin explained, scratching the back of his neck.

“Full of worms,” added Jon.

Martin nodded. “Full of worms, yeah.”

_“What?”_

Martin tapped on the Tupperware container. “That’s where we got these.” 

Sasha stared into it. Dozens of pale, silvery bodies filled it. They were still, and clearly dead from the odor, but as Sasha looked at them she struggled to shake the feeling that they were moving, flowing, and writhing like slow-moving creek water. “From a woman full of worms?” Jon and Martin nodded. “Right.”

Martin looked at the pale blue Tupperware and bit his lip. “We think she was Jane Prentiss.”

“Was,” emphasized Jon. “Definitely _was_. I don’t know how she was still alive.”

“I don’t think she was,” Martin said quietly. “Not really.”

Sasha knew Jane Prentiss. Everyone at the Institute knew Jane Prentiss, and Sasha had been to enough Departmental meetings with the head of Research to know that she was very real, and was definitely a threat. Or at least, she had been several years ago. “If she really is Jane Prentiss you two need to make a statement.” Sasha grabbed her tape recorder and put it between them. She knew what to do. Finally, in this weird and utterly baffling situation, she had a plan of action. “Are you...okay to do that now?”

“Probably not,” Martin admitted. “But we probably should.”

“Are you sure?”

Jon nodded curtly. “We’ll be fine.”

“Alright.” Sasha cleared her throat and clicked on the tape recorder. “Statement of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistants of the Magnus Institute, London. Regarding?”

The ghost of a smile tugged smugly at Jon’s lips. “A holiday.”

“...Regarding a holiday. Go ahead.”

* * *

_Two weeks ago_

“You know you’re going to have to come in at some point, Jon.”

Jon bit his lip and stared down the entryway of the Boothby Road flats he and Martin had been sent to investigate. They’d done this before, gone on cases that were dangerous. And Jon knew that. He had the scars to prove it. And he’d been fine in those cases; he’d stepped right over the thresholds without even a second glance. But that didn’t make his legs move now. “I know! I’m...getting there.”

“Getting where? The next step into the building?”

Jon glared at him. “I’m getting there, Martin!”

“Are you?” asked Martin, trying to sound put upon. He was too visibly close to laughter to look inconvenienced by him. “Because to me, it looks like you’re still standing in the doorway.”

“Fine,” Jon spat, squeezing the long-since warmed metal of the doorframe he’d been clutching in a death grip. He could do this. He really could; he was being irrational and Jon knew that, of course, he did. Jon made a move to step inside and instead ended up swaying in the doorframe. It was the most progress he’d made in ten minutes. 

Martin sighed. “Jon, seriously. People live here! You can’t just stand in the door the whole time.”

“I know, I know. It’s just…” Jon ran a hand through his hair. “It’s a spider statement, Martin. And when I go in there are going to definitely be spiders.” 

“Technically just the one ghost spider, if that helps,” said Martin, unhelpfully.

“It doesn’t.”

“Right.” There was a beat where Martin stared expectantly at Jon, and Jon stared expectantly at the stained floor tiles that lined the entryway. “So I take it you don’t like spiders?”

Jon snorted. “No, I most certainly do not.”

“Really? But they’re so important for the ecosystem! They’re really helpful actually; they kill mosquitos and other harmful insects. And honestly, they’re really cute, or at the least the big furry ones that—”

How had Martin described Jon when he got into the flow of an infodump? Adorable. And Jon had vehemently squirmed against that descriptor, and he stood by that. He wasn’t Martin though. His eyes didn’t light up behind his glasses like Martin’s did, he didn’t nervously tuck a stray lock of curly brown hair behind his ear like Martin did, he didn’t look so, well, adorable. Usually, Jon would have let him talk and relished in that adorableness, but they had a job to do, and more importantly, Martin was talking about _spiders_. 

“Martin!” Jon interrupted. “Not helping.”

“Okay, okay!” said Martin, holding up his hands in surrender. And he smiled, jokingly, half-jokingly, _adorably_. “Would it help if I held your hand?” 

Jon stared at Martin’s hand, extended and just within reach if he took one step in. It was a ploy. Obviously. And a joke. Martin was making a joke, right? And so if Jon really reached out and took his hand it would mean nothing but calling his bluff. He didn’t say anything, he just took that last step and intertwined his fingers between Martin’s, expecting at any minute for Martin to jerk away from his hand and laugh. 

He didn’t. 

Which was good. Jon didn’t want him to. Joke or no, Martin's hands were warm and firm, and alright yes, they did make him feel just a bit safer, childish as that sounded.

“Oh!” Martin’s face was very, _very_ pink, but his hand was still in Jon’s, and his smile was luminous and beautiful. “Right! Are you going to be alright?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Martin sounded genuinely concerned. Because of course he did, he was Martin. He cared. “Because I can call Sasha, I’m sure she’d understand, and I can do this by myself, it’s alright, really, I mean it’s just asking around for information—”

Jon squeezed Martin's hand. Probably too tightly, but the prospect of Martin going alone into the spider's den terrified him far more than the prospect of going in himself. “I’m not leaving you alone with them.”

“Oh.” Martin tried and failed to bite back the grin on his face. “That’s...very gallant of you, Jon.”

“Yes well, I...need you to be safe,” admitted Jon, looking away from Martin as he adjusted his glasses. “More so than I need to not be near ghost spiders.”

Martin looked like he was about to say something in response, but was interrupted by someone behind them clearing their throat. Jon and Martin turned to see a dark-skinned man in an expensive-looking suit smiling placidly at them. “Can I help you two gentlemen?” the man asked, sounding, and quite honestly looking a great deal like Elias. “I’m Yassir Kundi, I own the building.” He extended a pudgy hand for them to shake. “And you are…?”

“Martin,” Martin said, doing so. “And this is Jon. We’re thinking about moving here.” Jon had to do a double-take. For all of his own ineptitude at lying, it always surprised him just how good at it Martin was. Jon supposed Martin had to be to explain all of Jon's supernatural injuries to A&E staff. “Number four’s still open, right?”

Yassir’s smile grew strained around the edges. “Yes. It’s been open for about a year now, and this is usually where I tell you some sort of line about there being a lot of interest and you should get it now before someone else snatches it up, but quite frankly it’s been long enough that I’m just tired of it staying unoccupied and not being an income source.”

“Could we ask about the previous tenant?” asked Jon, trying and probably failing to hide his unease. “We, uh, like to know the history of a place before we buy it.”

Yassir’s smile properly faltered now. “I—of course. His name was Carlos Vittery. He was a model tenant, if not a bit odd.”

“Odd?”

“Well, he was a bit paranoid about spiders of all things, and he became a bit of a hermit by the end—the end of his occupancy that is,” Yassir added quickly, a plastic smile hurriedly pulled to his lips. “But he never caused any disruption or anything like that and the rent was always on time, so really he was, as I said, a model tenant. I wish all of my renters were like him.”

“Could we have a look at the flat?” Martin asked. “There are some pictures on the website, but you can never really get the feel of a place until you’re in it, you know?”

Yassir hurriedly jerked his watch to his face and whistled theatrically. “Well I must be going gentlemen, I hope you decide to rent number four, you two seem perfectly lovely.” He left the two of them far faster than he had any right to in such a stiff-looking suit.

Martin blinked at the veritable dust cloud where Yassir Kundi had just been. “So he definitely knows something happened to Carlos then.”

“I would seem so.”

Martin hummed in agreement. “So what next? Are we feeling door to door?”

“Not particularly,” Jon sighed, “but I doubt I have much say in the matter. If we can’t get into the flat I don’t see much recourse besides door to door.”

“Are you going to be alright?”

“It’s not like I think that Mr. Vittery’s neighbors are spider people, Martin,” snapped Jon, probably too harshly, but he wasn’t going to be handled with kid's gloves, even if he was nervous. He wasn’t a child, just a man with a very normal and rational phobia. Honestly, Jon would like to see someone watch a child get eaten by a spider and not develop a healthy fear of them.

“No, I know that. Just...you hate going door to door.”

“I’ll survive,” said Jon dryly. “Anyway, I believe Mr. Vittery’s cat is now residing in one of these flats, so it won’t be a total nightmare.”

Martin struggled to keep down a grin. “Are you really going to pretend you don’t know the cat’s name and where he lives now?”

Jon fixed his glasses and looked away from Martin and the almost definitely smug grin on his face. Martin officially knew Jon too well. “Major Tom is in number two, should we start there?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Jon made the mistake of glancing at Martin’s face and the expression plastered onto it. “Oh don’t be so smug,” Jon groused. “It was a spider statement. I needed something to keep me sane.”

“Of course,” Martin agreed. “Do you think the Admiral will be jealous you’ve been petting other cats?”

Jon knocked curtly on the chipped paint of the door to number two by way of a reply. The door opened to reveal a tall, middle-aged Asian woman with lopsided horn-rimmed glasses and a rather large tattoo on her forearm, and, more importantly, an ancient-looking grey tabby at her heels. Major Tom mewed up at them, and Martin rolled his eyes fondly, nudging Jon slightly as if to say go ahead. Jon waited a _respectable_ amount of time before _calmly_ and _collectedly_ kneeling to the ground to _interview_ Major Tom.

The woman shot Jon a glance, before looking away to Martin with a smile. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Yes, we, Jon and I—he’s the one on the floor—we were thinking about renting number 4 and we wanted to get to know the neighbors,” said Martin.

The woman smiled brightly at this. “Right, yeah. I’m Dionne Sanderson, I live here with my wife, Moira, and our esteemed flatmate Tom your Jon has already made the acquaintance of. Our little girl Hannah, well not so little anymore, just moved off to uni last spring." Dionne paused a moment to take in a breath of fresh air, having spoken a lot of words in very quick succession. "You said you were thinking of moving into four?” Martin nodded. “Our Major Tom’s from four. The previous renter, Carlos, had him for a while.“

“What happened to Carlos?” asked Martin casually. “The building owner was a little cagey about it.”

Dionne snorted. “I bet he was. Not that I want to dissuade you from buying because you two seem lovely, and if I’m being perfectly honest it’d be great to have another gay couple here if not to get Mrs. Harrisham in five to stop glaring at us all the time, but Carlos died in that flat. Mysteriously.”

Jon glanced up from Major Tom, who had delicately climbed up Jon’s torso and was rubbing his head against Jon’s face. Jon furrowed his brow. “Mysteriously?”

“Oh yeah,” nodded Dionne, folding her arms and leaning against the entryway of her flat. “He was a massive arachnophobe, right? Always on the lookout for the little buggers, constantly vigilant. That’s why he got Tom, I think. To deal with them. But then Tom left to move in with us, and Carlos makes like he’s going to move away, mutters something about spiders as he gives us Tom’s paperwork to make it official. And then we don’t hear from him for a week. And that’s not that odd, I mean moving’s a nightmare especially in London as I’m sure you two are finding. But then the O’Haras in three start complaining about a smell.”

Martin blanched. “Oh, God. Does that mean Carlos…”

“Bingo!” exclaimed a probably too-cheery Dionne considering the situation. “Dead of asphyxiation because of all the cobwebs in his throat. And his corpse?” she added, leaning in conspiratorially. “Completely entombed in cobwebs.”

“That’s…” Martin squeezed Jon’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Mysterious, like I said,” she agreed, leaning back again and sporting an inappropriately large smile. “Though I doubt you’ll have to worry about many spiders here. There was an uptick last year when the worms first showed up, but there must have been something off about them because the worms are still here and the spiders aren’t.”

Jon made a face that was completely obscured by Major Tom. “Lovely.”

Dionne shrugged. “They’re not a bother though, not really. A little gross, but if you stomp them they aren’t much trouble except for the bottom of your shoe.”

The conversation shifted then to something unrelated and inane, and Jon had no trouble tuning them out in favor of petting the cat currently resting on top of him. Major Tom was a good cat, though most cats were. But he had seen things if Mr. Vittery’s statement was to be believed. Dark, awful, spidery that wouldn’t die no matter how many times they were crushed underfoot. Things with mandibles and hate in their too many eyes and that wanted to do people harm. _Had_ done people harm if Dionne was to be believed. 

But Major Tom was fine. He had a new home now, people who loved him and cared for him and that promised him that he would be safe from the many-legged things that went bump in the night. 

Jon ran a shaky hand down the cat’s back and wondered if he was still thinking about Major Tom.

* * *

Their cafe was never crowded, and for that Jon was grateful. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people, though maybe it sort of was. It was more that it was a place, in Jon’s mind, just for him and Martin. It was where they had gone for the werewolf case, and then it had evolved. Now it was just where Martin dragged him when he realized Jon wasn’t planning on eating lunch that day. Jon didn’t even complain that loudly about it anymore. Sometimes he didn’t complain at all.

Their cafe was as passe as ever, though Jon wasn’t sure when he’d stopped scoffing at the cork boards covered in multi-colored flyers for open mic nights and the smell of day-old patisserie spreads and started viewing them as a part of the charm. Probably when Martin had made some comment about enjoying what they added to the ambiance while working on a case, though they didn’t spend as much time working cases here, not when Tim and Sasha exchanged money every time they returned for reasons Jon couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Not today though. Today they were here on case-related business (because sometimes it was worth the dramatic money exchanges for the tea, which was almost as good as Martin’s some days). The little bell above the door chimed cheerily as Jon and Martin entered, (because Christ it even had a little bell).

Jon swirled his tea absently, wishing it was coffee. It had been a long morning, though it had probably only been a couple of hours and comparatively they'd probably spent a very small amount of time actually investigating at Boothby Road. Most mornings relating to spiders seemed long, though. Coffee usually helped him get through those long mornings, but his stunt with the espresso the first time they had come here had resulted in Martin banning him from ordering coffee while he was with him.

Martin cocked his head at Jon. “What’s that face for?”

“What face?”

“You’re making your discontent and brooding face.”

Jon momentarily stopped stirring his tea to roll his eyes at Martin. “I don’t have a ‘discontent and brooding face.’” Martin silently raised an eyebrow. “I don’t!”

“Yes, you do. You look into the middle distance and everything. I think Tim tried to draw it once.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “I don’t remember Tim trying to draw me.”

“That’s because you were busy brooding discontentedly,” Martin informed him matter-of-factly.

“I’m not— _fine_.” Jon sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’m just disappointed with what we got today.”

“You wanted to go into the flat,” summarized Martin.

Jon nodded. “Yes. Very much so.”

“We got a lot though,” pointed Martin, taking a sip from his own tea.

“I suppose.”

“We got the cause of death and learned it was definitely supernatural spider related unless you want to tell me that a body completely covered in cobwebs after a week is natural spider behavior,” added Martin, looking at Jon suspiciously.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon scoffed. “Of course it was supernatural.”

“Right. So we learned how he died and all the mystery around it, _and_ you pet a cat.” Martin smirked at him over the lip of his mug. “I feel it was a very successful day, flat or no.”

“First of all, I wasn’t _just_ petting a cat,” interjected Jon. “I was interviewing a—if not _the—_ key witness to Mr. Vittery’s statement.”

“Mmhmm. What did he tell you?”

Jon took a nonchalant sip of his not-as-good-as-Martin’s and not-as-good-as-coffee tea and avoided Martin’s eye. “That he was a very good boy and he’d never done anything wrong in his life.”

“Major Tom said that? About himself?”

“Yes,” snapped Jon waspishly. “And he was absolutely correct.”

“I’m sure,” Martin laughed, setting down his mug. “Cats aside, did you have a second point?”

“I...yes. Secondly—”

Martin held up a hand. “Is this point also about Major Tom?”

Jon glared scathingly at him. “No.”

“Continue then.”

“Secondly, _Martin_ ,” grouched Jon, “I want to do my due diligence. This is a case I’m not...thrilled about, but I don’t want that to get in the way of doing my job. There’s more to this case, Martin, I know it. And I don’t want my own feelings about spiders to impede our learning it.”

Martin looked thoughtfully at him. “I’d have thought you’d be excited to not have to interact with the ghost spider.”

“I am, but I’ll be damned if the little bastards stop me from learning what they're up to.”

A smile played at Martin’s lips. “Alright. How do you reckon we’ll get into the flat though? I doubt Mr, Kundi will give us the key. He all but sprinted away when we asked to go in.”

“True,” agreed Jon, leaning back in his chair. “We could...Christ, we could break-in.”

“Jon!”

“What?” Jon exclaimed. “We did a heist with Georige and Melanie, and this time we aren’t even going to steal anything.”

“We didn’t steal anything last time either,” Martin hissed.

“But we were going to.”

“From work!” cried Martin, looking utterly scandalized. “From Elias! This is someone’s flat, Jon!”

 _“Was_ someone’s flat. And it’s not like Tim and Sasha don’t do legally dubious things for research all the time. Sasha especially.” Martin put his face in his hands and groaned, muttering something Jon couldn’t make quite out. “What?”

Martin removed his hands from his face and shook his head. “Nothing. I just can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Jon smiled, a weak and wan thing, but at the sight of it, Martin smiled too. “So how are we going to get in?”

Martin suddenly became very interested in the stain by the handle of his mug. “There’s a basement window that’s open.” Jon raised an eyebrow at him, but Martin ignored it. “It probably should be open still unless someone’s noticed it, but I doubt it. It may be a bit of a squeeze for me, but I should be fine and you definitely should be.”

“For someone who was horrified of the idea of breaking in—”

“Yes, well, we were going to have to find a way in and it was sheer dumb luck that that man held the door open for us,” grumbled an exasperated Martin, promptly taking a sip of his tea.

“So are we thinking we get my lockpick back from Melanie and use it to get the flat itself open?”

Martin sighed again, resigned. “I suppose. I can’t believe we’re doing this. And don’t say we did basically this like a month ago, that wasn’t where people lived.”

Jon didn't instead, his voice just went very quiet. “Thank you,” he said.

“For?”

“I know you’re not the most comfortable with this,” he explained, nervously tapping the side of his own mug, cheeks oddly warm, “and that you’re happy with the information we gathered today. So, thank you for doing this. For me.”

“Of—of course!” stammered Martin, cheeks going as pink as Jon’s felt. “And don’t thank me yet, we haven’t wormed our way through the window yet.”

* * *

Worm seemed to be the operative word there, as it turned out. On their journey from the car to the window Martin had described, they’d seen at least five, the glow of their silvery bodies in the torchlight standing out like miniature lighthouses in a sea of dark, primly manicured grass. Each had been squashed with extreme prejudice.

After having squished his sixth worm right at the window’s edge, Martin made a face. “Dionne wasn’t joking about these things being awful for the bottom of your shoe.” He began rubbing the rubber of his sole against the grass in some vain attempt to clean off the black jelly the worms excreted when popped. No wonder the spiders had stopped eating them.

“Don’t do that yet, there are more on the sill,” Jon warned, flashing his torch to the concrete window sill of the ajar window they would both be climbing through soon enough and illuminating at least have a dozen more of the things writhing and wriggling around on it.

Martin’s torch beam fell on them like a second stage light. “Eugh. You know what these worms make you appreciate?”

“Martin, if you say spiders I’m going to feed you to the worms.”

Martin gasped theatrically, a sure sign he’d been spending too much time with Tim. “You would never.”

“Maybe not,” Jon admitted. “But I certainly wouldn’t stop them from doing whatever they want with you.”

“Cruel,” said Martin, shaking his head. “Cruel but fair.”

The pair of them stared at the worms on the sill, which almost seemed to be doing some strange ballet in the torchlight. Jon curled his lip. “Do you want to go in first?”

“Ever the gentlemen, Jon, but not really. After you.”

Jon glared at him in petulant annoyance but made no further noise of complaint. “Fine.” Jon made quick work of the windowsill worms, much the chagrin of his shoes, and made his way through the open window. Unfortunately, it was only a ground-level window from the outside, meaning there was a bit of a tumble from the ledge to the ground. Jon made the decision not to tell Martin, for reasons that definitely weren’t pettiness.

Clicking on his torch, Jon glanced around the basement. The air was musty and thick, feeling heavy in Jon’s lungs and tight against his skin. It was a rather empty room, all told. There were the occasional rusty shelving units, barren, metal, and thick with dust. The concrete of the walls and floor were sunken and pockmarked from what looked like age and water damage, something the state of the ceiling above him attested to. The shadows cast by the light of the torch were sharp and dark, and they made the hair on the back of Jon’s neck stand on end.

So when the beam of the torch landed on a spiderweb, he was already on edge and he froze like a deer in headlights.

Jon didn’t know when Martin finally came tumbling out of the window as well, brushing himself off with a grimace, but the feeling of his presence next to him was a relief.

“That window is fatphobic,” Martin informed him, clicking on his torch. “Did you find anything?”

“So far only that,” Jon said, mouth dry. He pointed to the web with a trembling hand.

Martin’s face went solemn. “Oh. You stay there, okay? I’ll check it out.”

“I’m not leaving you to them, Martin.”

“So you’ll leave me to worms, but not spiders.” Jon gave him a severe look. Martin made his way over the web, wordlessly inclining his hand towards Jon’s as he did so. Jon took it. His hand was warm and strong, and Jon found himself feeling just a bit safer. He was so caught up in the security of Martin’s hand in his, he barely registered Martin taking a step back from the web.

Martin squeezed his hand. “I think it’s an old web.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think a spider lives here,” Martin explained. “At least, not anymore.” He flicked his light around the room, webs flashing like high-vis vests in car lights. “I think it’s the same for all of these.”

“That’s a relief. Well, not really in terms of the case, but still,” muttered Jon, mostly to himself. He shook his head and glanced over to Martin. “Ready to do a little more breaking and entering?” There was a pause. “Martin?”

Martin’s head was cocked to the side, though not like usual. Here it was different like he was listening to something far off. “Do you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“That sound. It’s like...squirming.” Martin turned, wheeling his around light with him and glancing around. The light caught on something large and pale, and Martin froze. 

“What is that?”

Trepidatiously, foolishly, they took a step forward. “It looks like a person,” Martin gasped.

Jon squeezed his hand. “We should go then.”

“It’s the middle of the night and they’re in the basement with the lights off, Jon, I doubt they’re here legally.” Martin took another step forward, then another, squinting at the figure and dragging Jon along. “It’s not like they’re going to report us.”

“Still. We should really be going.” No sooner than the words had left Jon’s lips when the figure coughed. No, that was the wrong word, because for all the shuddering motion that the figure made was like that of a cough, the noise that the figure made was not. It was like meat, ripping meat, wet and rotten and tearing meat and as the figure shuddered and made that awful meat sound holding up a sickly green handkerchief that was clearly not green originally, it was not just spittle that came from the figure’s lips.

It was worms.

A cascade of worms, black-headed and silver bodied and coming from their mouth like the bile rising in Jon’s throat. Martin screamed. Jon stumbled back, pulling Martin along with him and letting out an “oh Good Lord!” because what else was he supposed to say?

The figure turned, slowly, painfully. They—she, for she was clearly a she, or at least had been before she was just worms held together by pockmarked flesh and an overlarge grey overcoat - made eye contact with them and smiled. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, pupils collapsed, and as ragged and the shuddering breaths that she let out. Her teeth were black and chipped, the line between then and her bloody purple gums was a yellow and green wall of plaque and rot. Mold perhaps too, though how anyone, how _anything_ got mold in their mouth Jon couldn’t say.

“We need to get out of here.” Martin’s voice was quiet and hoarse, and his eyes stayed locked on the woman. They took a step back, slow and shaking but a step back nonetheless.

The woman didn’t move for them. Instead, she removed the ratty grey overcoat she wore to reveal more of her sallow skin, puckered and pockmarked and honeycombed with holes, thousands of holes. And in those holes were worms. More worms, as many worms and holes, and there were so many holes in this woman, too many for her to still be there and breathing and moving. The worms squirmed and squelched and moved about her body, in and out of holes until they didn’t and fell to the floor in an awful cascading wave of silver worms. The wave was fast, and pulsating, and writhing, and it surged forward towards Jon and Martin far faster than they had any right to move.

“Run. Now!” Jon choked out the words and started running, Martin’s hand in his as they ran towards the door out of the basement. It was atop some stairs, graphite grey and concrete, and blessedly clear of worms. The sound of worms was deafening, and save for the beat of his heart hammering in his ears, it was all Jon could hear. He could feel though, feel the beat of Martin’s heart too, pounding in tandem to his own as the worms came for them. 

As they ran, Jon saw Martin reach into his pocket and fumble for his phone. “What are you doing?” Jon gasped.

“We came here for proof of the supernatural, didn’t we?”

“Proof of a ghost spider!”

“Well, we’ve got something else!” As Martin held up his phone, a worm _jumped_ at him, up six feet in the air at Martin’s face, and Martin’s phone fell to the ground as was quickly swallowed by the worms.

“Keep moving!”

“I know!” 

Another worm launched itself at them, this time at Jon, and he dodged it, just barely, as he started ascending the stairs. Jon was at the third step, though he didn't remember mounting the first and second when Martin fell. Jon’s blood ran cold.

“Martin!”

“Go!”

Jon was back down the stairs and on the ground in an instant. “I’m not leaving you to them!”

“But I thought you said—” started Martin, somewhat hysterically.

Jon hauled Martin to his feet. “Not the time!” 

Then there was a sharp pain in Jon’s hand, and it took a moment for Jon to realize why. There was a worm there, embedded in his hand. He could see it moving just below the skin, wriggling and beginning to turn down into the meat of his hand. He let out a cry and began stumbling up the stairs two at a line, but he was behind Martin now and the worms were far faster and far more agile than he was. Another worm entered his shoulder, and then another in his leg, and then he started to lose track of all the worms burrowing into his flesh. He was sure at least one burrowed into his face.

“Jon!”

Martin’s voice was distant. How many worms were in him now? He’d lost track but it felt like a lot. He just knew that they hurt when they entered and they hurt when he moved and that he hurt all over. He was moving, he was sure of that, but he wasn’t sure how or why. There was a voice. He could hear a voice clear as day, sweet and melodious and ringing in his ears like the tolling of a church bell, and it filled him up like the worms in his skin. And Martin was talking to him too, calling his name with his cracking like dry spaghetti, but the sound was far off and distant, like he was talking through water and plexiglass.

And he was being picked up, hoisted off his feet by strong arms. The arms were warm and covered in something soft and knit, and they felt like a home. Not like the home that the melodic voice sang of, that was a very different sort of home and its song was not the same as the home that was made in those big strong arms. 

Jon’s vision was going fuzzy and black like he was seeing the world through TV static. If you were to ask what his last thoughts were before everything went black, he couldn’t tell you. His brain felt like puddy or maybe more like a waterspout, all swirly and muddled and unclear. He thought about strong arms that were a home, about an odd buzzing ringing in his ear like a song, but mostly Jon thought about how much he hurt. Yes, the hurt most of all.

It was almost a relief when everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, well I did warn you y'all were at the whims of my motivation, and what with Christmas and then me getting Hades and doing nothing but play Hades for the rest of Winter break and then the consequences of not doing any schoolwork for two of my classes and also that coup attempt I've just been a little off my rhythm. Don't worry though, the next chapter is already underway and I am _very_ excited about it and you definitely should be too.
> 
> Next Chapter: Jon wants to dance with somebody, Martin cooks, and Sasha reacts


	9. Vignettes, A Study of the Gilligan Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t worry she can’t get us in here,” Martin assured him. “Once I was sure you were still alive and I’d gotten you on the couch I plugged up everything, the door, the windows, everything that a worm could get through. She’s been just knocking for hours, so I don’t think they can get in. So we’re safe, at least for now.”
> 
> “Just stuck,” Jon summarized.
> 
> “For the time being.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Listening: _I Want to Hold Your Hand_ by the Beatles  
> For: You’ll See ;) Vibes  
> (Does anyone listen to these? You don't have to, they're really up here for just me to screech my music into the void but a gal does wonder...)
> 
> CW//  
> Worm extraction

_Day One_

Jon awoke on a lumpy couch to Martin leaning over him, gently holding one of Jon’s cheeks with one soft, firm hand. Its pair was stabbing Jon in the face with a corkscrew. Jon screamed. Martin screamed. 

A stressful time was had by all.

“Sorry! Sorry! That should be the last of them,” Martin said, pulling a worm out of Jon's face and hurriedly tossing it away. He leaned away from Jon, looking sheepish.

“Why are you using a _corkscrew?”_ demanded Jon, resisting the urge to put a hand to the hole in his face. His heart was beating like a jackrabbit’s, and he felt like he was dying. Who knew, maybe he was, though if he had to die from one of his case-related injuries he’d have hoped it would have been from the werewolf instead of worms. It would have made for a better story at the funeral, anyway.

Martin toyed with the bloody corkscrew in his hands self-consciously. “Well, I tried using a knife for the ones in your leg, but just going in laterally wasn’t the most efficient so I thought since they seemed pretty slow burrowing down that the corkscrew would just...work better.” 

Jon slumped into the couch rubbing his eyes and wishing that the couch was more comfortable. “Right.” That was rather clever, actually. Jon probably would have been more impressed if a worm hadn’t just been pulled from his face.

“You probably shouldn’t do that, I need to uh…” Martin petered off and shook a little box of band-aids. “Yeah.”

Jon sighed and hesitantly sat up again. “Right.” Martin placed the band-aid over the steadily leaking hole at Jon's cheek, and as he did so Jon noticed a patchwork of band-aids and bandages covering his arms and part of his legs where his pant leg had been rolled up. “Where’d you put the worms?”

Martin, who had been closing up a little plastic First-Aid kit, looked up at him in confusion. “What?”

“The worms you pulled out of me?”

“Oh, those?” Martin shrugged. “I just threw them away. I mean, what am I going to do with a bunch of bloody worm carcasses?”

“Where are we?” Jon was fairly certain he’d passed out in a musty basement, and not a cluttered flat with far too many mugs laying around.

“My flat. In Stockwell. You sort of passed out?”

Jon groaned. “I remember.”

“So I had to take you somewhere and I felt we probably shouldn’t lead that _thing_ to a hospital,” Martin explained, casting a disgusted look at the door.

Jon sat up again and rolled back down his pant legs. “We need to tell Sasha. Or the ECDC or _somebody_.”

“We...can’t,” said Martin apologetically. “The power’s out. I lost my phone back there to the worms and yours was dead before I thought to check it.”

“So? We can make a statement in person.”

“That’s the other thing.” Martin looked down at the corkscrew. “We can’t leave.”

Jon just stared at him, bile and panic rising in his throat. “What?”

“Do you hear that knocking?”

Jon hadn’t fully understood the meaning of the phrase “hammering at the door” until he’d woken up, and now he couldn’t unlearn it. A deluge of constant, rhythmic knocks tore through the flat and ricocheted off of every piece of furniture and every wall hanging until it settled deep into Jon’s very bones. 

In short, Jon heard the knocking. “I can’t not.” 

“That’s...her. The worm woman.”

_“What?”_

“Don’t worry she can’t get us in here,” Martin assured him. “Once I was sure you were still alive and I’d gotten you on the couch I plugged up everything, the door, the windows, everything that a worm could get through. She’s been just knocking for hours, so I don’t think they can get in. So we’re safe, at least for now.”

“Just stuck,” Jon summarized.

“For the time being.”

“Right.” Jon re-slumped into the couch. Sometimes he really missed smoking.

“We should get some sleep. It’s been a long day. I mean, I don’t need to tell you that, you got wormed,” added Martin, laughing nervously.

“I remember that too, Martin.”

“Of course, right I—sorry.”

“It’s okay Martin, really.” Jon considered putting a comforting hand on Martin’s arm but figured that it wouldn’t be all that comforting coming from him. “Like you said it’s been a rather long day. Some sleep sounds nice.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Me neither,” Jon admitted, “but then I got ‘wormed’ as you put it.”

“I guess. You can take the bed if you want, the couch should be fine for me for tonight.”

Jon leapt to his feet, horrified. “Martin are you serious? It’s right by the door! If any worms get through you won’t even be a stone’s throw from them!”

“Well, I’m not going to sleep on the floor, Jon.”

The mustard-brown carpet rug at Jon’s feet suddenly became very interesting. “I...didn't mean that.”

“Oh!” Jon could hear the flush in Martin’s voice. “Are you sure?”

Jon swallowed and looked up. “I mean if you’re okay with it—”

“Of course, I mean I don’t want to make you—”

“It wouldn’t mean anything, it’s just so you don’t get—”

“I know, I know it’s alright I—”

“Just like at Georgie's, and that was...yeah. Right.” Jon didn’t point out how different the situation Georgie’s had been, them both being rather drunk at the time. Jon certainly hadn’t been himself, and he couldn’t imagine Martin would have acted the same way sober.

“Okay.” Martin stood, face still the color of primroses. “I’m going to go get changed, do you want something else to wear or…?”

Jon looked down at his own outfit. It’s not like he hadn’t slept in his work clothes before. He certainly didn’t make the effort to change when he spent the night at the office. Still, though, he remembered how comfortable Martin’s sweater had been. If they ended up being trapped here longer than a day or so, he certainly wouldn’t complain if he had to borrow a thing or two. Not that he could justify doing so now, though. He smiled awkwardly at Martin. “No, I...this should be fine. Thank you, Martin.”

“Right!” Martin started inching towards the other room. “I’m just going to...yeah.”

* * *

_Day Two_

Jon awoke in Martin's arms.

For the second time.

The worst part was he didn’t even mind it, not at first. Martin was warm, and the faint sunlight filtering through the blinds lit Martin’s hair up like a halo. Jon certainly hadn’t fallen asleep like this, and he was fairly certain Martin hadn’t either, the pair of them putting as much distance between them as they could without falling off the bed. And yet…

Jon had to leave. The last time, when they had been at Georgie's, Jon had been able to escape to his flat and had had the luxury of not having to see Martin right after _in Martin’s flat_. As quickly and gently as he could, Jon extracted himself from Martin’s arms. Martin didn’t wake, he just curled in on himself more. Jon would never understand why such a large man spent so much time making himself smaller, even in sleep. He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the dozing Martin and made his way to the living room.

Jon needed something to do. Not just to distract himself from...well from the bedroom and its contents, but also just in general. He didn’t take well to being bored. And in lieu of work, he’d have to find something else.

What he needed was a book.

When Martin awoke who knew how many hours later, he entered the living room to see piles and piles of books, and in the middle, a cross-legged Jon staring thoughtfully at a well-loved paperback.

“Jon? What?”

Jon didn’t even look up at him. “She’s still here.”

Martin cast an annoyed look at the door. “I can hear that.”

“So I’m occupying myself,” Jon explained, setting the book in a pile to his left.

“By creating a fire hazard?”

“By looking for something to occupy myself with.” Jon furrowed his brow. “Is that alright?”

“Yeah, of course just...I didn’t realize I still owned some of these,” Martin admitted, shuffling over to Jon and his precariously stacked kingdom.

“Some of them were tucked in hard-to-reach places. Especially those.” Jon gestured to a stack of romance novels, about half the size as most of the rest of the piles and twice as bent out of shape. 

Martin turned beet red. “Right, well feel free to read anything you want. They’re all good, or well, I like them,” he finished, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear nervously.

“I’m sure they're wonderful, Martin,” Jon assured him. “Maybe not your rather extensive poetry section, but—”

“Are you not a poetry person?” Martin squinted at him, face returning to a normal color.

Jon just shrugged dismissively. “Not particularly. Some of it’s alright I guess, but you do own rather a lot of Keats.”

“I like Keats!”

Jon made a face. “Clearly.”

“What, are you not one for romantics?” Martin asked, crossing his arms indignantly.

“Certainly not for _the_ Romantics.” Jon rolled his eyes and picked up a hardback that sported the name of the author in far too large letters for how comparatively small the title itself was. “It’s all a lot of flowery bluster to say nothing at all.”

“Nothing at all?” Martin looked like he was going to huck a book at him. “Christ, Jon, I’m going to have to throw you to the worm woman. Keats is all about tragic love and doomed romance.”

“There’s enough of that in real life with clear language, Martin.”

“Maybe, Martin conceded. “But sometimes it’s nice...not feel so alone with it, you know?”

Jon didn’t know, not really. He wasn’t really a love person, not like that. Not in the grand, cosmic, flowery poems way. He’d really only loved two people in his life, Georgie, and the Admiral, and he’d certainly never felt like he lived in a world without bird song or whatever other nonsense Keats spouted; he refused to think of the man and his poems more than he strictly had to. It was clear Martin had, though, and so Jon dropped it.

Jon continued sorting through the paper stacks, moving anything that seemed interesting to a steadily growing tower to his right. He’d already read a handful of Martin’s books, though he was pleasantly surprised by the diversity of Martin’s non-poetry books. Most skewed romantic, (Jon was starting to realize Martin was just a very romantic person), though there was a healthy selection of heavily annotated mysteries and, excitingly enough, a remarkably diverse group of non-fiction books.

One of the books that had been relatively hidden away wasn’t like the others. It was leatherbound, for one, though just as worn as the rest of Martin’s tomes. It also lacked a title and author, which probably should have set off a few alarm bells in Jon’s head though he very much doubted Martin would own a Leitner, even accidentally. 

Jon furrowed his brow at the book. “Martin?”

Martin looked up from a collection of Keats Jon knew he’d picked up just to be spiteful. “Hm?”

“What’s this?” Jon shook the little book in his hand.

Immediately Martin went red again. “Oh, um, don’t look at that one.”

“Why?”

“It’s poetry, you wouldn’t like it,” said Martin, far too quickly.

“Right.”

Martin dropped the Keats book and held out his hand. “Can I have it?”

Jon shrugged and handed it over. “It’s your book.”

“Yeah, just...don’t look at this one, alright? You can do whatever with the rest, but I’d rather you leave this one alone.” 

Jon just shrugged again. “Alright.” He grabbed a dirty green paperback and held it up. “Is this any good?”

The color faded from Martin's cheeks as he began a whole spiel about the book in question, and the leather book was forgotten.

* * *

_Day Three_

Jon was in the kitchen when he saw the first worm. It probably shouldn’t have been a surprise that his first instinct was to immediately hurl his book at it in a blind panic, but he was nonetheless shocked to find the book out of his hands and the black gel of the worm’s insides making a ruin of the gratuitously shirtless protagonist lounging on the cover.

When the second worm came, Jon was without a projectile. He scrambled back off the countertop he’d perched himself on. “Martin! Martin, they’re getting in!”

Martin’s head popped out of the bedroom, his eyes like saucers. “What?”

“Get blankets, towels, _anything_ hurry!”

“R—right!” Martin retreated, the sound of hurried footsteps as he dashed around and the occasional thump of something being knocked over almost for a moment drowning out the incessant knocking. 

The worms were still coming, trickling through a crack in the wall like water from a faucet, and in numbers far too great for Jon to just stomp them all. He couldn't throw more things at them either; he lacked the speed and accuracy needed to make a dent in the steady stream of worms pouring into the kitchen. He had to do something though, had to make a move before they burrowed into him again. Even as he watched them form a growing pile of wriggling bodies he felt an itching beneath his skin. 

And so Jon grabbed something to stop them, the closest thing he could reach that could do anything to prevent the worms from making him into whatever the woman outside the flat door was. His fingers closed around a small metal fire extinguisher, and he only fumbled a moment with the release before he released a torrent of CO2 on the writhing mass of worms at his feet.

And then...they weren’t writhing anymore. They weren't moving at all, in fact, they were dying. The CO2 was killing then and so Jon kept spraying, killing all of the worms on the floor and then moving up the wall to fill the crack the worms were coming in from with the gas until the hole was filled with the shriveled remains of the worms. Jon felt his head start to swim. He probably...he probably shouldn’t have been inhaling that much CO2, but he just needed to know that the worms were dead.

By the time Martin returned with armfuls of linens, Jon’s breathing was heavy and he was swaying on his feet. But the worms were dead, and that was what mattered. 

Martin dropped the cloth in his hands just in time for Jon to pitch sideways into him. “Jon, what? What happened?”

“Worms,” Jon managed, righting himself and leaning heavily on the counter. “The—they don’t like the CO2.”

“I—right. I’ll fill this hole up and you just take a second to breathe some wormless oxygen, alright?”

“Sure.” Jon hunched over the countertop, taking long, deep breaths. The wormless oxygen helped, though that wasn’t much of a surprise. He could think clearly again, and as such Jon lurched forward and grabbed Martin’s arm before he began throwing worm carcasses into the garbage. “Wait! We should save those.”

“What?”

“As proof,” Jon explained, releasing him. “That they’re real. When we get out.”

“I...alright. Uh, get something to put them in I guess.”

Jon began rooting through drawers and finally pulled out a baby blue Tupperware container. “Will this work?”

“Probably? I mean, I’ve never stored dead worms before.” They spent a few minutes dropping worms into the container before putting the mismatched lid on the little bin, making sure to touch as little worm flesh as possible with their bare skin. “Should we just put them in the fridge then?”

“I think the freezer would be better.”

“Right. Just next to the waffles, then?” asked Martin, nodding at the open freezer.

Jon let out a huff of a laugh. “Unless you’ve got a better place for them.” Martin stowed the Tupperware of worms and Jon sank to the floor, back to a wall of cabinets, suddenly exhausted.

Martin sat down next to him. “You didn’t get bit again, right?”

“No, I’m alright. You?”

“I was barely there,” laughed Martin, shaking his head. “You killed them pretty effectively. You were like Rambo with the extinguisher.”

Jon snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far.” It was silent except for the steady knocking at Martin's door.

“You know who she reminds me of?” Martin announced, breaking the silence.

Jon inclined his head towards his partner. “Hm?”

“The worm woman,” said Martin. “She reminds me of Jane Prentiss. I mean, she’s a whole lot worse off but—”

“But she certainly fits the MO,” Jon finished, nodding. Christ, Martin was so much cleverer than he gave himself credit for. Then _Jon_ gave him credit for if he was being honest. He hadn’t even thought of their captor outside of general fear and irritation.

“Like in the Harriet Lee statement especially,” Martin was saying, straightening a little against the cabinets as he spoke, “with all the worms coming out of her.”

“We really need to talk to Sasha,” agreed Jon. “Especially if she really is Jane Prentiss.”

Martin glanced mournfully in the direction of the door. “If only we could get out of here.”

* * *

_Day Four_

There was food everywhere in the kitchen when Jon entered it after finishing yet another of Martin's books. Everywhere, it seemed, but the fridge.

“What are you doing?” asked Jon. He cast a wary glance at a half-empty jar of spaghetti sauce. “The worms didn’t contaminate anything did they?”

“No, nothing like that,” Martin assured him, removing a jar of jam and setting it on the counter. “It’s just we’re going to need to go through the perishables at some point, right? If we’re here for much longer they’re going to rot. And it’s not like I’ve got that many perishables here but we might as well use them.”

Jon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in and leaned against the food-strewn counter. “Right. I do remember grand claims about your culinary expertise, Mr. Blackwood. It’ll be interesting to see what you come up with.”

Martin turned from the fridge, arms crossed and eyebrow arched. “Is that a challenge, _Mr. Sims?”_

Jon grinned. “It might be.”

“I’ll be sure to wow you, then.”

“You’d better.”

And so now they were here at Martin’s chipped and stained dinner table eating a meal that was...well it wasn’t bad per se, but it was, unfortunately, rather British. There wasn’t a lot of seasoning, and there were things boiled that probably shouldn’t have been, and, overall, the texture and overall tactile sensation (because Jon refused to even think the word mouthfeel) of a TV dinner. 

Martin looked at him expectantly. “So?”

Jon struggled to make his face move from the grimace it had positioned itself ever since his first bite. “I...well.” Jon struggled for words before electing to just start over. “Remember when I posited that tea making ability is not transferable to cooking ability?” he asked, slowly, carefully.

Martin looked scandalized. “Jon!”

“Look, I just...not for me?” Jon tried again. 

Martin looked unimpressed. “Well, I’d like to see you do better, Mr. microwave tea man.”

* * *

_Day Five_

Martin’s fork dropped to his plate with a clatter. “Fuck off.”

“What?” Jon hadn’t even picked up his own fork and had instead chosen to stare awkwardly at Martin, wringing his hands. “It’s the seasoning, isn’t it? I never could get the percentages right.”

Martin shook his head and stared intensely into Jon’s eyes. “Jon. Look at me.”

Jon shifted in his seat. “I’m looking.”

_“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”_

“Please,” scoffed Jon, glaring at his plate. “It’s not half as good as my grandmother’s.”

Martin gaped at him incredulously. “Was your grandmother _Gordon Ramsey?”_

“I—no?”

“How could you think you can’t cook?” he demanded.

“Like I said, my grandmother’s was far better.” Jon picked at the edges of his napkin. “I don't know how she did it, I mean I’ve tried everything and I followed the recipe to the letter but—”

“Jon. This is incredible. _You’re_ incredible,” Martin said, cutting him off. He immediately reddened. “As a chef. I mean, if this whole archiving thing doesn't work out you’ve got a very promising career ahead of you.”

Jon covered his face to stifle a laugh, and definitely not to hide the heat in his own cheeks. “Well, I’m glad you like it.”

“Fuck, Jon, I really do.” Martin picked back up his fork to take another bite. He shook his head. “God, tea-making ability really doesn’t correlate with cooking ability.”

“I told you.”

Martin rolled his eyes fondly and gestured warningly at Jon with his fork. “Alright, don’t be a dick about it.”

“Impossible,” scoffed Jon, taking a bite of his own. “I’m a dick about everything.”

* * *

_Day Six_

Jon was on the floor.

Why wasn’t important at the moment, he just was. 

Martin had a very comfortable carpet, Jon was finding. It was a disgusting shade of mustard, but it was thick and soft, and it smelled like lint and wool and cinnamon, and it felt like sturdy cords of rope between his fingers. 

Things were getting...dire. Jon had long since started to wear Martin’s clothes, which in all honestly wasn’t really a problem. Martin’s clothes were cozy and far too large. They reminded him of the charity shop shirts Jon had picked for their size as a teenager. He rather liked drowning in clothing, it made him feel like a turtle, free to retreat into his shell at his leisure, not that he felt that often around Martin. 

Besides that, Jon had finished most of the palatably prose books at Martin flat. There were only a few chapters left in his last book, and so yes, Jon was laying on the floor. He knew he was only delaying the inevitable. He kept lying on the carpet anyway.

Jon glared at an old water stain on Martin’s ceiling. He was getting bored, he could feel the restlessness filling him up like creme in an eclair, and, grumbling, rolled over to his side and sat up.

Jon leaned over the coffee table and sighed. “She’s keeping perfect time.”

Martin looked up from his book. “What?”

“Prentiss,” Jon explained. “She’s keeping perfect time. She’s like a metronome. I feel like she’s counting us in for something.”

“Maybe that’s the secret to make her go away.” Martin tossed the book onto the coffee table. Jon noted that it was one of the prose books that he’d read earlier and not poetry, meaning Martin had finally decided to start reading based on content and not purely to spite him. “We have to serenade her. The answer’s been in front of us the whole time.”

Jon snorted and rolled his eyes. “Lord, can you even imagine?”

“I mean, it can’t hurt,” shrugged Martin, a remarkably Tim-ish grin playing at his lips. “It’s been almost a week.”

“What would we even sing at her?” 

“There’s only one song you can properly serenade someone to,” Martin said matter-of-factly.

Jon circled the stains on a coaster with his finger. “I have to disagree with you on that.”

“What, have you serenaded someone before?”

Jon shrugged casually. “I mean, I _was_ in a band in uni.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips.

Martin sat bolt upright on the couch, eyes bulging. “You were _what?”_

“I’ll tell you about it when we get out of here.” 

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“So what song are we singing at her?” asked Jon, desperate for the conversation to move on.

Martin seemed to take the bait without much complaint. “Like I said, there’s really only one you _can_ sing. Legally I mean.”

“Did they pass a law on serenades I was unaware of?”

“That’s the peril of living under Tory rule, Jon,” Martin tisked. “Impromptu serenade mandates.”

Jon laughed at that, actually properly laughed. It felt...strange to laugh like that again. It had really been too long, and the sound felt unfamiliar coming from his throat. “Alright. When you’re ready, Mr. Blackwood.”

Martin stood and paused a moment. And then he began to sing. “You’re just too good to be true…”

Jon covered his mouth in shock, eyes wide. “Oh my God.”

“Can’t keep my eyes off of you…”

“Martin—”

“You’d be like Heaven to touch…” Martin began to sway slightly in time with the knocks and his own lilting melody.

“Martin—”

“I want to hold you so much…”

“I can’t believe you were serious—”

“At long last, love has arrived…” Martin crooned. “And thank God I’m alive.” His voice wasn’t anything special, but it filled Jon up and made him feel all tingly inside. 

Jon was positively beaming. “You _ridiculous_ man.”

“You’re just too good to be true, can’t keep my eyes off of you.” Martin spun and began making his way towards Jon.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Pardon the way that I stare…” Martin sang, extended a coaxing hand towards him, drawing Jon off the floor.

Jon stood and dusted himself off, sidling Martin with a glance. “Fine. Happy?”

Martin didn't respond, spinning again and continuing the melody. “There’s nothing else to compare…” 

“This…” Words fled him, and Jon just shook his head in amused disbelief. 

“The sight of you leaves me weak, there are no words left to speak." Martin led Jon to the door in a slow, waltzing canter. "But if you feel like I feel, please let me know that it's real. You’re just too good to be true, can’t keep my eyes off of you.” Martin smiled at Jon, who couldn’t help but smile right back. 

Rolling his eyes, Jon threw back his head. “I love you, baby! And if it’s quite alright, I need you baby to warm the lonely night; I love you baby.”

Martin faltered for a moment, staring at Jon with an indescribable look on his face and a hopelessly soft look in his eyes. “Oh pretty baby! Don’t bring me down, I pray oh pretty baby, now that I’ve found you, stay and let me love you, baby, let me love you.” There were more words to the song, Jon knew, but Martin just broke and collapsed to the floor, laughing. Jon allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile. And maybe a part of that smile was for Martin, body shaking with peals of laughter of the absurdity of it all.

Martin sat up eventually, whipping his eyes and letting his expression fall to a more weary one directed to the door where Prentiss was still steadily knocking. “I guess it didn’t work.”

Jon joined him on the floor and gave Prentiss a dismissively annoyed look. “Everyone’s a critic.”

Martin let out another laugh, and Jon’s heart soared. _He_ had made Martin make that sound. It felt good to do that, to make Martin laugh. Neither of them did much of that nowadays. “You’ve done that for people?” asked Martin, settling down. “Like, seriously?”

Jon shrugged. “Once or twice.”

 _“‘Once or twice?’”_ gawked Martin. “How did it go?”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “How would _you_ react to me singing at you like that?”

“I…” At that, Martin went quite pink. He did that a lot, of late. “Well, I’d have to marry you on the spot. It’s too romantic.”

Now it was Jon’s turn to laugh. “Well, that’s certainly not how they responded.”

“Did you ever serenade Georgie?”

“How do you think I ended up _dating_ Georgie?” snorted Jon.

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Jon said. “Same song and everything.”

“ _Really?_ And you said there were other songs you can serenade someone with.”

“You can,” said Jon, “but we’d just watched _10 Things I Hate About You.”_

For all the apparent bombshells Jon had dropped, that was the one that seemed to jar Martin the most. “I can’t believe you’ve _seen 10 Things I Hate About You_.”

Jon prickled at his surprise. “It’s Shakespeare.”

_“Barely.”_

* * *

_Day Seven_

Jon had read every single one of the non-poetry books in Martin’s flat. He would not resort to poetry.

* * *

_Day Eight_

Jon had resorted to poetry.

He hated it.

* * *

_Day Nine_

Jon really wished that one of Martin’s books was a thesaurus because the word _ransacked_ felt a bit dramatic, but he honestly couldn’t think of a better word to describe what he was doing. 

He had to have missed a book. He _had_ to. Because in a few more pages he would have read all of the books in the house beside the enigmatic little leather book Martin had squirreled away and six different collections of Romantics poetry, four volumes of which were Keats. And he really, _really_ didn’t want to resort to either. 

So yes, he was ransacking the flat. Again. And not even just for books, just for something to prolong the inevitable. Maybe stored between the threadbare coats and worn-at-the-toe shoes there was an anti-worm button he could press. The various cupboards and cabinets and closets of the flat were a veritable treasure trove of random items. And, speaking of—

“Martin! You didn’t tell me you had a record player.”

“I do?” Martin leaned in the doorframe of the bedroom, brow furrowed and head cocked to the side. He glanced at the dust-coated record player sitting on the bed and the equally dusty milk crate full of vinyl Jon was now elbow-deep in. “Oh, right. Yeah, I do, I guess. It was my dad’s. He left it with us when he...you know. Honestly, I forgot I still had it. It wasn’t like Mum ever let me use it.” Martin chewed his lip and shook his head, properly entering the room. “Is there anything good in there?”

Jon shrugged, flipping through the crate and regarding the various albums. “Some. There’s some Queen…” He flipped through a few more albums, well worn at the edges, before holding a creme colored one aloft. “Oh, uh _Honky Chateau_ by Elton John.” Jon placed the album adjacent to the record player and kept pawing through the crate. “Hm. There’s a _lot_ of Rolling Stones in here.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Jon rifled through a few more Stones albums with another shrug. “Solidly neutral. Oh!” Stuck in between two albums whose covers were too faded to see was a familiar yellow and orange vinyl sleeve. Triumphant, Jon held up _Love_ to Martin. Martin just made a face. “What?”

“Just...the Beatles.” The distaste on Martin's face intensified at the name.

Jon’s fingers curled protectively over the record. “Do you not like the Beatles?”

“Ugh, no.” Martin rolled his eyes and flopped down on the bed. “They’re so pretentious.”

“What?”

“Do you have any idea how many guys will say that their favorite band is the Beatles to sound cool and sophisticated?” asked Martin, tiredly.

“Maybe they just really like the Beatles.”

The look on Martin’s face was one of genuine horror. “I refuse to believe there are _that_ many twenty-to-thirty-year-olds who only listen to music that came out decades before they were born.”

Jon let out a short breathy laugh. “Alright, fine. But are there _any_ Beatles’ songs you like?”

Martin paused for a moment. “I’ve never listened to them,” he admitted. “I mean, I’ve heard like Yellow Submarine or whatever, but that’s about it.”

“Martin, they’re the most popular band of all time!”

“I know! I just, I don’t know. It’s like a point of pride now.” Jon shot him an unimpressed look and slipped the record from its sleeve. “What are you doing?”

“You are going to listen to a Beatles song,” Jon informed him, “and you are going to enjoy it.”

“Jon!”

“Just one song, alright?”

“Fine, fine,” conceded Martin. “Why are you defending them anyway? Don’t tell me they’re _your_ favorite band.”

“No, I don’t even think I have a favorite band.” Jon lifted the needle and set the record on the base. “I...I used to listen to them with my grandmother.”

“Was she the one who taught you how to use a record player?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Oh yes. She didn’t believe in cassettes and CDs. If I wanted an album it had to be on vinyl.”

“Was it all Beatles’ albums then?” asked Martin teasingly, tossing another contemptuous look at the yellow record sleeve still in Jon’s hands.

Jon chewed the inside of his cheek, face warming. “No, uh, it was actually mostly Tina Turner.”

Martin’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

“And Whitney Houston,” Jon admitted with a sigh. “I had a very distinct taste.”

Glancing at the sleeve in his hand for the timestamp, Jon set down the needle and the record crackled to life. There was the sound of a finished cord as the last song came to an end, and then the first twangs of a guitar. Wordlessly, Jon extended a hand towards a suddenly very pink-cheeked Martin.

It was Jon’s favorite Beatles song, simplistic and rather trite, but _I Want to Hold Your Hand_ had always made his staunchly stern and studious grandmother liven up a bit. The beat and the lyrics and the nostalgia always de-aged her a bit, and for a few moments, she would be alive, really alive. Sometimes, she would even dance. Nothing too exuberant mind you, but swaying as she sang the words in a low rasp. Sometimes, Jon would dance with her like he was dancing with Martin now.

It was different though, dancing with Martin. Well, obviously, Jon was not a tall man and his grandmother had been shorter than him since he turned fourteen, and Martin was easily over six feet, but more than that. Maybe it was because Martin was hearing it for the first time and he tilted his head towards the record player as he and Jon did what could charitably be called dancing. Maybe it was the way he looked so surprised at the quality of the song, or the way he was looking at Jon mouthing the long-since memorized words with that indescribable look on his face. Jon wasn’t sure what it was, but he had never regretted more how short the song was. Reluctantly he released Martin’s hand to slip the vinyl back into its sleeve.

“So?”

Martin still looked a little dazed. “So…?”

Jon held the album over the milkcrate and raised an eyebrow. “Thoughts?”

Martin’s face, already flush with exertion, grew pinker and he looked away from Jon, absently touching the patch of skin where Jon’s fingers had been moments ago. “I may have...misjudged the Beatles.”

Jon smirked triumphantly and placed the album back in the bin. “Thank you.” 

Looking back up at him, Martin tried to keep down an inquisitive grin. “So Tina Turner? Really?”

“I had every album,” Jon confessed. He nudged the side of the crate with his elbow, and the overlarge blue fabric of the sleeve came back slightly grey with dust. “Do you want to play anything?”

Martin pursed his lips. “I...don’t know how to use the record player.”

Jon gawked at him. “What? You, Martin Blackwood, Mr. Lo-Fi charm and retro aesthetic, _you_ don’t know how to use a record player?”

“When would I have learned?” Martin exclaimed, arms defensively going wide.

“You _own_ a record player!”

“I didn’t even remember I had it until just now!”

Jon crossed his arms and glared up at Martin. “We’re going to remedy this. Pick an album.”

“Really, Jon, it’s fine—” He was silenced by the intensifying of Jon’s glare, and he began to root through the milk crate.

* * *

_Day Ten_

When Martin entered the kitchen, he did a double-take. “Jon are you alright?”

“Of course. Why?”

“You’re sitting on the counter with your knees up to your eyes.”

Jon curled his knees closer to him, taking up as little space on the countertop as possible. “This is just how I sit,” he snapped.

Martin visibly paled. “Is it a worm? Did another get in?”

“No, no nothing like that,” Jon assured him hurriedly. He glared at his knees to avoid Martin’s eyes. “There’s a...there’s a spider.”

Martin, for his part, blessedly chose not to make a comment. “Where?”

Jon nodded to the left. “By the fridge.”

Striding over to the off-white fridge with far more courage than Jon could even imagine given the circumstances, Martin scooped up the little spider in his hands, cooing to it like it was a kitten or a baby. “Come here, little guy. Let’s get you outside—oh. That’s not really an option, is it? Right.” Martin glanced around the sparse kitchen and grabbed a mug. He overturned it, the last droplets of a long since cooled cup of tea splashing onto his wrist, and trapped the spider under it. “Well, that’ll have to do for now.”

Warily eyeing the mug, Jon extracted himself from the counter. It was contained. For now, at least, but if he couldn’t see it Jon could ignore it. And besides, if it got out again, he knew Martin would just deal with it again. He was just like that. Jon honestly didn’t deserve it. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, really,” said Martin, smiling reassuringly. “Like I said, I like spiders. But you really don’t.”

“No, I really don’t,” Jon agreed. He stared up at Martin, at his open face and his kind smile, and he made a decision. “I should...I should probably tell you why.”

“You don’t have to, I mean if you’re not comfortable—”

Jon held up a hand. “I want to. You deserve to know. I _want_ you to know.”

“Right.”

Jon padded nervously over to the couch and slumped into it, Martin tentatively following suit. “I was eight years old when my grandmother gave me the book…” Jon began, and the story poured out of him like water from a jug, about the Leitner and the door and the words that Jon had etched into his brains as deep as canyons. He talked and explained and curled up on himself again, though the couch was a far sight more comfortable to do so on than the hard plastic of the counter. 

Jon tugged nervously at his fingers and stared very intently at the carpet. “His name was Bryce. The boy it took. You want to know the worst part? I didn’t even remember his name until I was cut by that scalpel. I remembered him, what he did for me, what he looked like, I even remember the sneer to his voice when he spoke to me. But I couldn’t remember his name. He saved my life and I couldn’t even remember—” Jon drew a shuddering breath and Martin lay a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault, Jon,” he said softly.

“But it is,” insisted Jon, eyes prickling and voice far sharper than he meant it to be. “It was _my_ book, _I_ was supposed to have been the one—”

“But you weren’t,” Martin urged, thumb tracing those reassuring circles across his sweater. "There was nothing you could have done.”

“A boy is dead because of me,” Jon spat, disgust at himself dribbling from his lips.

“A boy is dead because of a giant spider and a book, not because of you. It’s not your fault.” Jon disagreed and would have said as much if not for the determined look on Martin's face that told him there was no use arguing it. Jon rested his hand over Marin’s and bit his lip, looking away. It was always easier to brood when not looking at Martin, whose face was far too earnest and reassuring to be conducive to festering in guilt.

“I lied on my CV.”

Jon's head snapped towards Martin, brows knit together in confusion, startled at Martin's sudden outburst. “What?”

Martin extracted his hand from Jon’s shoulder and pooled his hands in his own lap. “I...I lied on my CV. I don’t have a masters in parapsychology, I don’t even have a degree. My mother she...she got sick and I dropped out to support us. I just thought...I just thought you should know. If we’re—” Martin laughed nervously, staring intently at his fidgeting hands. “If we’re doing a whole sharing thing. Just...don’t hate me, alright? 

Jon placed a hand on Martin's shoulder, honestly because he wasn’t sure what else to do. But it had felt reassuring when Martin had done it, so Jon figured it couldn’t hurt. “Martin, it’s okay. Honestly, I don’t think I could ever hate you, let alone for something like this. And quite frankly it’s kind of impressive.”

Martin looked up at Jon with a look of utter bafflement. “What?”

“I mean you’re turning out work that’s believably from someone with a master's,” Jon explained. “It’s not perfect, but it’s still remarkably close to where it should be.”

A nervous smile tugged at the corners of Martin’s mouth. “So you won’t tell Sasha?”

“Of course not. And besides, you’re still the most qualified person in the Archives, degree or no. It’s not like the rest of us have backgrounds in library science.”

“I guess. Still, thank you,” said Martin, face unbelievably soft.

Jon just smiled back at him, ignoring the odd feeling in his stomach and heat at his cheeks.

* * *

_Day Eleven_

Jon had finished all of the poetry books in the flat, which meant he had finished all of the books in the flat period. 

All but one.

But he wasn’t going to read it.

* * *

_Day Twelve_

Well, he wasn’t going to read it for very long, anyway.

That’s what Jon told himself as he crept out of bed, careful not to wake the still sleeping Martin. The living room was cool and silent, save for the ever knocking Prentiss at the door, though by this point they had both long since tuned her out. The books were there, stacked and ordered as they’d made their way through them. The leather book sat at the bottom of one such pile, shoved into the corner and hidden in shadow. 

Painstakingly, Jon removed the book from its place in the pile. Martin wasn’t that heavy a sleeper, at least not in the present situation. A cascade of books tumbling to the ground was sure to wake him. The tower didn’t topple though, and the book was clutched in Jon’s hands. With far less hesitation than he probably should have had, he opened it and began to read.

It was a journal, Jon realized. Handwritten, obviously, and clearly by Martin. If there anyone whose handwriting Jon could identify at sight at this point, it was definitely Martin's.With the number of joint reports they'd filed, it would have been impossible not to. 

Martin hadn’t been lying, it was indeed full of poetry, though nothing Jon recognized. Which, realized Jon with a pang of guilt a few pages in, probably meant they were original. But he didn’t stop reading.

Part of it was that Jon was very bad at putting down books once he’d started them. But another part was that it honestly wasn't that bad. Fairly pedestrian, yes, and far too enamored with Keats in places for Jon’s liking, but there was an earnestness to it. But that was to be expected, Jon supposed, if it was Martin’s. And it helped that the poems didn’t seem very personal. They were about things like the night sky or living in London or trees with too many branches. 

The notebook was worn, the leather soft at the edges, and the pages slightly yellowed or graphite smudged from being flipped through time and time again. The poems got steadily better as Jon went through, clear improvement showing over a timeframe Jon couldn’t really quantify. 

And then there was a shift. A clear change in subject, the poems about leaves and pavement turning, slowly to poems about a person. They were love poems, Jon realized with a start, and far better than the others. The emotions were far more potent and better articulated. And Jon realized by this point he was almost definitely overstepping. Was this why Martin hadn't wanted Jon to read this? He hadn't wanted Jon to know about his crush on whomever these were about? It wasn't like Jon was going to judge him for a crush, though a very small part of Jon felt a tinge of what most certainly not jealousy at the thought. Jon’s eyes flicked across another poem, more recent from the sharpness of the lines in Martin's looping script, and his breath hitched.

> A mug abandoned on the desk
> 
> And scattered clothes— a place to rest
> 
> The rumbling street, a path we trace
> 
> His silence in a crowded space
> 
> I wonder, if I one day dared,
> 
> What words, if spoken, would be shared?
> 
> In thoughts, unsaid, and wishes shown,
> 
> Through glances sent but never known.
> 
> I hope, sometimes, that I’ll be seen,
> 
> A meaning caught, intentions gleaned
> 
> But even still, he doesn’t see
> 
> The span of what he does to me
> 
> Better, perhaps, to watch and stay,
> 
> Continue still this game I play?
> 
> Nothing gained but nothing lost—
> 
> I don’t know which the greater cost.

It was good, far better than the others in the book, the way that Martin described his subject clear, so clear, in fact, that as Jon flipped through a couple more poems it almost seemed like Martin was talking about—

No. It was...too much, an invasion of privacy. Too personal. Not for Jon to know, to read. Jon slipped the book back to the bottom of the pile and exited the living room as quickly as he could, almost not bothering to even be quiet in his escape. Martin had asked him not to read that book and he had anyway. He shouldn’t have read that, shouldn’t have learned-

No. He didn’t learn anything because he didn’t read that book. He would just forget it. Forget the whole thing, pretend that this had never happened until as far as he was concerned it never _had_ happened. Jon slipped back into bed and tried to ignore the soft, relaxed expression on the face of the man beside him.

* * *

_Day Thirteen_

_(Today_ _)_

Jon almost shattered his mug when it happened, which would have been a shame. He rather liked the mug and its cat border around the rim, and the tea it held was freshly brewed. That didn’t stop him from sloshing out half of its contents and nearly splitting the bottom in two in his haste to set it down. 

“Do you hear that?” he gasped.

Martin slowed his stirring of some milk into his own tea and looked at Jon quizzically. “No?”

“The knocking’s stopped.”

Martin’s eyes went wide, and his mouth hung open. “Does that mean…?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” In a flash they were at the door, listening, barely even breathing. It was silent. No knocking, not even that awful squelching noise the worms made. Just silence. They stayed like that for a moment, until Jon rested a hand, featherlight, on the doorknob. “I’m going to open it.”

“Do you think it’s safe?” Martin’s voice was quiet as if he was afraid that Prentiss was just behind the door and making note of every word they said.

“It probably is?”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“It’ll have to do.” Jon firmed his grip on the handle and steeled his nerves. “Do you have the corkscrew?”

“Yes,” Martin admitted, pulling it out of his jeans pocket. “Don’t make me use it.”

Jon took a deep breath and pulled open the door to reveal…

A hallway. An ordinary hallway. Albeit a little stained where Prentiss had apparently stood, but clear of worms and their hive. Jon released the breath with a sigh. “She’s gone.”

Martin sagged against the wall, his grip on the corkscrew loosening so much it almost slipped through his fingers. “Oh thank God.”

Jon didn’t let himself properly relax. “Get the worms,” he told Martin. “We’re going to make a statement.”

* * *

“And so we came here,” finished Jon. “That’s it.” He gave a look to Martin for confirmation, who just nodded wearily. Jon understood completely. He felt like he could sleep for a lifetime and not be free of the exhaustion the past two weeks had caused.

Sasha blinked at him from across the table and adjusted her glasses, which had been steadily sliding down her nose as she listened to Jon and Martin make their statement. “I...right. That’s…”

“A lot,” Jon sighed. “We know.”

Sasha warily eyed the worms on her desk. “If that really is Jane Prentiss her condition has degenerated significantly.”

“So do you believe us?” Martin asked, leaning in a little, more than a little desperation in his eyes.

“That's...yeah.” Sasha blinked a couple of times, coming back into herself. “Martin, you lost your phone, right?”

Martin nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, and Jon’s was dead or we would have called—”

“I’ve gotten texts from you.”

Jon gaped at her. “You _what?”_

“Texts,” she explained, holding up her phone to show them. “Loads of them from something claiming to be you saying you and Martin were off on a holiday. Well, its exact words were ‘honeymooning in Scotland.’”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that Tim owes me twenty quid back, and that apparently a worm woman thinks you two would be cute together.”

Jon chalked the heat in his cheeks up to...he didn't even know. He was too tired to process right now. “Besides that.”

“It means—wait.” Sasha’s brow furrowed and she looked at her phone. “I’m getting another text from Prentiss.”

Jon could practically hear Martin's heartbeat, and he knew it was pounding just as hard as his own. He seemed to be trying to keep his composure, though. “What does it say?” Martin asked.

“‘Keep them,’” Sasha read. “‘We have had our fun. They will want to see when the Archivist’s crimson fate arrives.’”

Jon’s mouth went dry. “Good Lord.”

Sasha, for her part, didn’t look impressed. “That’s a bit much. I mean, really, she’s trying a bit too hard there.”

“So you’re not worried at all?” asked Martin, clearly worried himself.

“Not really.” Sasha clicked off her phone and looked at Jon and Martin, eyes full of something Jon very much hoped wasn’t pity. “Look, you two are lovely if not a little hapless, and this has definitely been a harrowing experience but...well it’s just you two tend to be a bit melodramatic about stuff like this.”

“Jon got hurt!” Martin exclaimed, gesturing at Jon’s bandages for emphasis. “Worms burrowed into his skin!”

“Jon gets hurt almost every time you two do a case. I can get some CO2 extinguishers for the Archives in case some of these show up,” sighed Sasha, tapping the Tupperware container with her pen, “but honestly I don’t think this is as big a deal as you two are making it out to be. I’m going to get this tape over to the people in Research who are still assigned to Prentiss, but for now, you two should probably take the rest of the week off to recuperate.”

Martin looked like he was going to say something and from the borderline manic look in his eyes, something he’d probably regret later. “But—”

“Martin.” Jon placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. “It’s...let’s go home.” They left Sasha's office, Martin making a hurt and angry face at Sasha as they went that Jon might have replicated if he’d had the energy. They weren’t too far from the parking lot when Martin let out a wounded noise.

“Where am I supposed to go?” he asked. “I’m _not_ going back to my flat.”

Jon didn’t even hesitate. “You can come over to mine.”

“Really?”

“Of course, I mean, I can’t imagine the state it’s in after being abandoned for two weeks and we’ll definitely need to throw out the four things in my fridge, but it—” Jon had more things to ramble out, but Martin cut him off with a hug that after a stunned pause Jon returned. Parting, Jon gave Martin a quizzical look. “What was that for?”

“Just...thank you, Jon.” The sincerity and sheer gratefulness in Martin’s eyes nearly made Jon keel over from the blunt force of it.

“Well, it’s not like I didn’t just spend the past two weeks at your flat. It’s the least I can do.”

“I know, but you didn’t need to offer your flat up like that.”

“But I wanted to. Besides, I really want to be alone right now, and I don’t want you to have to be alone either.” There was a beat, and then Jon and Martin realized how close they were standing to each other. Taking a step back, Jon cleared his throat. “Anyway, we should probably get something to eat. Any thoughts?”

Martin huffed out the ghost of a laugh. “Anything that isn’t canned peaches.”

* * *

When they got into bed, there hadn’t even been a question of whether or not they were going to share. They both knew neither of them felt safe without the other. It was dark, the sounds of London bustling about filtering through the cheap windows of Jon’s flat. Jon was tired. He had been tired for the past thirteen days and yet in the as near to silence as it got in the city, Jon found himself lying awake.

The covers beside him rustled as Martin shifted to face him. Apparently, he was still up too. “Jon? Are you still awake?”

“Yes,” admitted Jon. “I can’t sleep. I want to but—”

“It’s too quiet,” Martin finished.

“Who’d have thought we’d miss the knocking?” They laughed quietly, the sound barely audible over a passing police siren, but they both knew it was there.

“At least it smells cleaner.”

Jon snorted. “Barely.” The flat had been in a real state when they’d found it. Jon had never been a fastidious person, and he hadn’t been the best at regularly being in his flat to begin with, but apparently, the combination over two weeks had not been the ideal blend. It had not been a very warm homecoming.

“Yeah, but you know what I mean,” sighed Martin. “There’s none of that smell that Prentiss brought with her, you know? That awful musty smell, all stale rot.”

Jon wrinkled his nose. “I know what you’re talking about. If we want to ever get to sleep we might not want to talk about Prentiss.”

“Right.” More rusting as Martin adjusted his position in the bed again. “We’re finally out.”

The finality in his voice gave Jon some pause. “What?”

“We made it out,” Martin explained. “We’re not under siege anymore. And you know what that means.”

“We can leave to get proper groceries without worrying that worms are going to eat us?” tried Jon. He could hear Martin shake his head more than he could see him actually do it.

“No,” said Martin, smile as audible as it was undoubtedly smug. “It means you tell me about your uni band.”

Jon covered his face and let out a groan. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten that.”

“Never. It helped keep me going if I’m being honest.” Oh yes, Jon could see the grin that was on Martin’s face clearly in his mind's eye, a look as endearing as it was obnoxious, and Christ was he glad he had this man as his friend. “Jon?”

“Fine,” Jon grumbled, repositioning himself and all but giving up on any proper sleep. “So we were called the Mechanisms…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I bet you forgot that Sasha doesn't think it's that big a deal in canon! Everyone forgets that Sasha doesn't think it's that big a deal in canon >:)c  
> Also! Teen Jon! Teen Jon! Teen Jon! Teen Jon!  
> Sorry this is a week late, but do y'all see how long this is? I hope it was worth the wait.  
> Anyway, back to your regularly scheduled rambles! The poem was written by my most resplendent and radiant beta and girlfriend, the illustrious rippleskip, whom you can find on Ao3 and tumblr. Thank them, because if I wrote it it would be filled with a deep and passionate loathing for poetry as a whole. I fucking _hate_ poetry. Christ, what to talk about. Thirteen days is a lot of days my dudes, thusly this chapter being a million years long. Alternate songs for the Beatles scene were Come on Let's Go by Ritchie Valens and You Can't Hurry Love by the Supremes, but I had such a vivid snippet of the conversation jmart have about the Beatles lead piped into my brain in the middle of the night that I couldn't not go with I Want to Hold Your Hand. Also, Martin's dad's taste in music is truly a character study in a character I will never write again. Additionally, I had to read some Keats for this monster of a chapter, and FUCK Keats dude. I can see why Martin likes it but I'm on Jon's side. That shit is trash.
> 
> Shout out to my regular commenters awildaceappeared, snuckybarnes (who's fics I LOVE by the way), WafflesIron, MarlaHectic, Wildshadows, and the_maybe (I remember you from 15th Fear! It's nice to see you again!) You all are lovely, but they are the loveliest. Sorry, I don't make the rules. 
> 
> Next Chapter: Tim attends a family meeting, Jon finds a cache, Sasha kills a spider, and for some reason my beloved readers fail to bully me into writing yet again, I assume


	10. Building Professionalism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, no, I can see it now. _Wormageddon!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Listening: _Maggot_ by Slutever  
> For: Fuck Jane Prentiss (But Not Like That You Freaks) Vibes
> 
> CW//
> 
> The bone apple teeth  
> Discussions of worm infection  
> Worm ingestion

The Archives break room smelled like microwaved plastic and twenty-year-old gum on fifty-year-old table bottoms. It was, all things considered, not the worst smell in the world. Daresay even homey, though that just meant Jon spent far too much time in there for someone who had a job to do. 

Jon tapped his pen against the table as he nursed a slowly cooling cup of tea Martin had handed him before disappearing into the stacks. _He_ was working. Working like Jon should be. And he was. Truly! In a manner of speaking. He definitely had a case file in front of him, and he was certainly holding a pen. So far he’d taken some scant notes, a few short and nondescript annotations in a margin or two. But for the most part, he just stared at the ever-blurring too-close words of the file, smelling the tea, gum, and plastic, and thinking.

Thinking about a lot of things. About the warmth of the bedsheets in the morning where Martin had been (he was an early riser, Jon had discovered). About the pilling wool of Martin’s sweaters (he let Jon steal them, which was good because they were absurdly comfortable). About the way that the corners of Martin’s eyes crinkled when he smiled (especially when he was smiling at Jon, for whom he had an odd sort of smile that Jon couldn’t help but return with a bubbling something in his stomach).

Or he was until Tim stumbled into the breakroom.

That was an immediate red flag; Tim never stumbled anywhere.

Jon scrambled to his feet. “Tim? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” said Tim waving him off and slumping into the chair adjacent to Jon. “Just passed some more of those worms on my way in.”

“They didn’t bite you did they?” Jon asked, sitting back down.

“No, no I’m fine. I mean, in hindsight I probably shouldn’t have worn these shoes to work with how many there have been recently.” Tim gave a look at the soles of his shoes that was somewhere between distasteful and mourning. “They haven’t...they haven’t been bothering you and Martin, have they?”

Jon rapped his fingers against the side of his mug. “Honestly, I think they’re all here. We haven’t seen any of them anywhere but the institute since Martin’s flat.”

“I can’t tell if that’s a relief or not.”

“Me neither,” Jon admitted.

They were quiet for a beat. “How are you two doing, by the way?”

“Fine, Tim.” Jon paused, considering. “Well, not fine but as well as can be expected I suppose.”

Tim reached across the table and touched the hand Jon had flat against the table tenderly. “Does the wormlessness help?” he asked, voice as gentle and soothing as he could make it without a laugh creeping in.

Jon couldn’t tell if he was joking but a snort bubbled out of him anyway. “Yes, Tim, the wormlessness helps. As does Martin. He’s been…” Well, he'd been _everything._ To Jon, that is. It was hard to describe exactly how Martin helped beyond the obvious and the bone-deep certainly that without him Jon would have spiraled a long time ago. But he hadn’t. Martin was there, there when Jon woke up in the morning with sleep rumpled hair and a cup of tea, there when Jon fell asleep at night with a quiet _good night, Jon_ and a ghost of a smile, there in between with his laugh and his presence as steady as the ticking of a clock and—

Tim cleared his throat, and with a start, Jon realized he’d been staring silently into the middle distance looking fond and tracing circles around the lip of his mug for the past who knew how long. 

Tim grinned. “He’s been…?”

“He’s been a real help,” Jon said lamely, face flush. 

“It’s good to see you two are doing alright then. Comforting each other.” Tim wiggled his eyebrows at Jon suggestively, though what exactly he was suggesting by it Jon didn’t bother trying to know.

Jon blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Tim coyly, continuing to wiggle his eyebrows.

“With your face,” Jon clarified. As if that was the reason for Tim's impishness: lack of understanding.

“It’s called smiling, Jon, some of us do it every now and then.”

“I know what—” Jon sighed, cutting himself off. When Tim set his mind to being like this there was nothing you could do to get him to stop except and get Sasha, and even that only worked half the time. “You’re wiggling your eyebrows.”

“Am I?” asked Tim, wiggling his eyebrows some more. Jon wondered where he got the brow stamina. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Tim.”

“Yes, Jon?”

“Why are you wiggling your eyebrows?”

“Oh, no reason,” conceded Tim, letting his poor brows rest. “Just...I’m glad you and Martin can be a comfort to each other in these trying times.”

“And why does that mean eyebrow wiggling?”

Tim stole Jon’s mug and took a sip. He smacked his lips loudly, and Jon had to take a pause to remind himself that Tim was his friend and it was very rude to hit your friends. “No reason.”

Jon leveled him with a piercing glare. “How have _you_ been doing Tim?”

Setting down Jon’s mug, Tim sighed. “I’m not really sure,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—I’m getting worried. It’s starting to feel a little like the beginning of a zombie movie, you know?”

Jon shook his head. “I’m not sure that Prentiss and her worms count as that. She’s definitely not alive, but I wouldn’t call her a zombie.”

“I guess not. Figures. I would be an excellent zombie movie protagonist.”

Jon took a sip of lukewarm tea. “Lord.”

“Don’t roll your eyes, Jon, you know I would. My witty one-liners and gorgeous face? Perfect for a zombie movie. I’d just need some strategically ripped shirts and a cool-looking weapon and I’ve got myself a franchise.”

“Tim.”

“You all would be my equally gorgeous supporting cast,” he continued, ignoring Jon. “No one quite sure who is going to be the one to end up with our intrepid leading man.” 

“I’m going to leave, Tim.”

“Vicious ship wars would be fought over us!” crowed Tim, fully on a roll now. “So much sexual tension left unresolved movie after movie!”

Jon rolled his eyes and began collecting his things. “I’m leaving.”

“No, no, I can see it now. _Wormageddon!”_

“Good-bye, Tim,” said Jon curtly, not even bothering to linger at the door.

“You’re just mad because you know I’m right!” Tim called after him, and Jon resisted the urge to roll his eyes a third time.

* * *

It was late. 

There were no windows in the Archives to tell him this, but he could feel fatigue pulling at him like he had weights on every limb. But that was fine. Fatigue was an old friend by this point. And besides, he had filing to do.

A box, dirty and slightly damp at the corner. From the early 2000s, but Sasha insisted that there was a misfiled statement from the 2010s in there so Jon was wading through it, fingers curling with distaste every time they brushed the wet spot. If there really was a statement in there, Jon had yet to find it. He’d been going through the box for what felt like a lifetime. And he’d only been distracted reading a statement twice, though in his defense the statements had been on spiders and books, and Jon couldn’t just ignore them. But spiders and books aside, it really did seem like the box was properly filed. A first, and something that should probably have warranted a celebration as an Archives first, but it just meant he’d touched that awful damp patch for nothing.

Sighing, Jon moved on to the next box. It was far lighter than Jon had expected, and the weight distribution was odd. So odd, in fact, that when Jon went to pick it up he nearly tossed it over his head like he was a shitty shot put player. Setting the box down on the table, Jon lifted the lid to reveal a fire extinguisher haphazardly shoved inside.

Jon leaned in closer to the box like it was the distance from it that was making him think that the paper account of liars and druggies was actually a fire extinguisher. He adjusted his glasses and frowned. “What in God’s name…”

Martin smacked the door to document storage with his palm twice to get Jon’s attention. They didn’t knock anymore, not after Jon had absent-mindedly knocked on the bathroom door of his flat and gave Martin a panic attack. “Jon?” he called, leaning his head through the doorframe. “Are you ready to head ho—head back to your flat?”

“Yes, in just a minute, I...I found a fire extinguisher in here.”

Jon wasn’t sure exactly how he expected Martin to react to that—laughing maybe, or asking in a kind voice just how long Jon had been working—but glancing around conspiratorially and quickly closing the distance between them was definitely not it. Neither was a terrified expression crossing his face or him whispering, “Keep your voice down!”

Jon did as he was bid, but that did nothing to damper his confusion. “What?”

“About the…” Martin trailed off and nodded to the box. “You know.”

“Why?”

“So the worms don’t find out,” mumbled Martin, going red.

Jon’s mouth hung open. _“What?”_

“So the worms don’t find out about it,” Martin repeated, louder this time.

“Martin—”

“Look,” interrupted Martin, clearly intent on getting out whatever he needed to get out no matter how red he became in the process. “I know it’s stupid but I’ve been hiding some gas around the Archives. I know Sasha already had some put in, but there aren’t that many and they’re all in really obvious places, and so I thought if there were some in places the worms didn’t know about...I don’t know. Like I said, it’s stupid.”

“I mean, a little bit,” admitted Jon, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure the worms can strategize. I mean, I hope not. But it’s better safe than sorry, and it’s not like more gas can hurt.”

Martin looked down, cheeks the same color as the fire extinguisher. “I guess.”

Jon surveyed the boxes surrounding him. There were dozens, and he knew that he could make a sizable dent if he really wanted to. And there were more boxes on his desk too, just waiting for him to go through, more stories for him to read, more mysteries to unravel. And then he looked at Martin, at his partner, his roommate, his friend. And he knew where he was needed.

Jon put the lid back on the fire extinguisher box. “I’m done here,” he announced. “Ready to go?”

Martin gaped at him. “R—really? Not that I’m complaining but—”

“Yes, Martin,” sighed Jon, leaving Document Storage to get his stuff from his desk, Martin following closely at his heels. “It’ll all be here tomorrow. I’m sure I can manage not doing work for one night.”

“Oh, can you now?” Martin asked, cocking his head in that puppy-dog way he did and giving Jon an absurdly smug grin for a man that had just admitted to hiding fire extinguishers in old document boxes. “Because I distinctly remember last week Sasha having to order you out of the Archives because you wouldn’t leave.”

“That was different,” sniffed Jon, shrugging on his coat.

“Was it?”

“Yes,” Jon snapped. “I was…I was looking for information on Prentiss.” Obsessively looking for information on Prentiss. Feverishly tearing the Archives apart looking for information on Prentiss. How could he not? He felt the way Martin curled into himself from the nightmares. And he had nightmares of his own. Between the two of them, they hardly slept, and they dreamed of enough worms to bury the world under a thick downy blanket of them. 

But he’d found something though. He’d found a statement from Prentiss herself, and the night he had he hadn’t slept a wink because every time he closed his eyes he could feel an itching under his skin and hear an uncomfortably familiar tune ringing in his ears. But it had been worth it. It had. If he told himself that enough he almost believed it. It always helped to know. 

He’d been telling himself that a lot too, recently.

Martin rested a hand on his shoulder, and Jon let out a shuddering breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been letting swell up in his chest. “And now?”

“Just more on those delivery men,” he said, shouldering his bag. “Breekon and Hope?”

“I know the ones. They delivered that coffin, right?”

Jon nodded and started for the exit. “Among other things.”

“I thought we moved on from the coffin months ago,” said Martin, holding open the door.

“We did,” Jon agreed, ducking under Martin’s arm. "But they were mentioned in another statement, the one about the calliope.”

A lopsided smirk formed on Martin's face. “Not calli-ope?”

“Don’t you start too,” warned Jon, pointing his finger at him in what he hoped was a threatening manner, though what exactly he was threatening he wasn't sure.

Martin just grinned at him. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I’ve never heard you interrupt Sasha’s recording before.”

“If it’s going to be on tape she might as well pronounce the damn word correctly,” grumbled Jon.

“Anyway, I thought Tim was researching that one.” Martin held another door open because apparently, he thought Jon was incapable of doing so.

“He is, but I’m just focusing on those two.” Sasha had said the word “circus” and Tim had snatched the folder out of her hands before she even had the time to mispronounce calliope. “They’ve been in a lot of statements; I can’t just ignore them. I don’t know what they are, but they're clearly dangerous.”

“Well, I’m glad you can put them away for one night, at least.” Jon hummed in agreement, but Martin continued coyly, “It also means you can start dinner early tonight.”

Jon snorted. “Something I’m sure had no impact on you dragging me out of here so early.”

“It’s an hour after closing, Jon,” Martin protested, adjusting his grip on his own bag.

“That’s not a no on it being your reasoning,” noted Jon.

Martin crossed his arms. “Jon, going home at a normal hour is good and healthy.”

“And?”

Rolled his eyes, Martin sighed in a faux put-upon sort of way. “And your cooking is really good! I’m allowed to have two motives, Jon.”

Jon just smiled up at him. “Of course.”

* * *

Jon was leafing through a book he’d just barely managed to convince Diana to let him borrow from the library as he walked to his desk when Sasha called out to him from her office. “Jon?”

Jon looked up from his book and walked into the mass of papers and boxes and broken keyboards from Sasha’s furious typing that made up the Head Archivist's office. “Hm?”

“Could you take this to Artifact Storage, please?” Sasha held up an apple by its stem. Or, it looked like an apple. Except for the teeth. Jon was fairly sure he’d never seen an apple with a mouth full of smiling teeth in it, shiny and smooth and glimmering white. It was a lovely mouth of teeth, all perfectly healthy. He wondered who they were from. He hoped not that thing in Sasha’s hands that looked so very much like an apple.

He took a few involuntary steps back. “Good Lord, what is that?”

“An apple,” said Sasha patiently, continuing to hold it out for him to take.

“I can see that,” Jon groused. He gingerly took it from Sasha, making sure to only touch the stem and not to let it anywhere near the book. He had just gotten back into Diana’s good graces, he wasn’t about to squander it for a piece of grinning fruit. “Will Artifact Storage even take it? Isn’t it technically medical waste?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like _we_ can get rid of it.”

“That’s fair. I suppose I’ll put it in the minifridge, then.” Jon stared again at the apple now clutched in between his fingers. “Are those teeth?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“Yup.” Sasha nodded, looking unfairly unperturbed. 

Jon felt faint. “Oh.”

“Oh yeah. Dr. Elliot’s statement was...a fun one.” Sasha made a face at the word fun like she relished the way it felt on her lips.

“I think you and I have very different ideas of fun.”

Sasha leaned back into her chair, the joints of the thing creaking in a too-loud metal scream. “You and Dr. Elliot both.”

“Do you believe him?” Jon asked, pointing not looking at the apple. “You know how other academics get.”

“Believe me, I do. But you see the apple.”

“Someone could have pushed those teeth in.” Jon wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

“Maybe, but Dr. Elliot didn’t seem like the type.” There was a beat where Jon forced himself to look professionally skeptical. Sasha cleared her throat and shifted in her chair. “He, uh, he saw some worms on the way in.”

“Was he alright?”

“He was fine. Just...they’re getting bad.” Sasha looked sheepishly at her feet. “There’s a lot of them.”

Jon nodded. “That’s what Tim was saying the other day.”

“He told me.” Sasha managed a smile. “Wormageddon?”

Jon pursed his lips. The name certainly hadn't grown on him from the last time he’d heard it until now, despite what Tim had assured him. “Oh yes.”

“He’s not wrong though.”

“About his believability as a zombie movie protagonist?” exclaimed Jon, almost incensed enough to forget what he was holding in his hand and letting it accidentally brush against the side of his pants.

“Well yeah, but also about the worms.” Sasha fidgeted with her hands. “I...may have misjudged them. If there really are as many as there seems to be, and they do what you say they can do they may be a real threat.”

A very unproductive and unprofessional part of Jon very much wanted to scream at her that he and Martin had been saying as much for weeks. “It’s good to see you’re starting to take this seriously,” he finally managed.

“I think I’ll talk to Elias about changing the fire suppression system to CO2.”

Jon snorted. “Good luck with that. I can’t imagine he’ll be very receptive. He seemed about as convinced of how serious the situation is as you were.”

“Well then hopefully he’ll start to change his mind like I did.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “This is _Elias_ we’re talking about.”

“True. I’ll come up with a different angle then.”

“Sounds like a plan.” There was another beat. “Do you really think Tim would be a good zombie movie protagonist?”

Sasha threw up her hands defensively. “He’s very genre savvy! I can’t argue with his assessment of his skills.”

“His skills were one-liners and attractiveness,” Jon pointed out.

“Those are very important qualities in that context!”

Jon set the book under his arm so he could pinch the bridge of his nose at Sasha in indignation, Diana be damned. “You know what? I’m not having this conversation again. Twice with Tim is enough.”

“Did you see the movie poster he drew?”

“The one on the minifridge? That’s why it came up again.” It was held up with kitschy magnets along with some of Tim’s other drawings and a signout sheet like Tim was five and the rest of the Archive’s staff were proud parents.

“It’s a good likeness though.”

“Of you.”

Sasha shrugged. “He captured what was important.”

* * *

Sasha waltzed into the Assistant's foyer (it wasn’t an office, it was the empty space before the stacks, but that didn’t have the same ring to it) and clapped her hands together. “Alright everyone it’s time for a family meeting.”

Martin looked up from where he had been sitting on Tim’s desk and whispering conspiratorially about something that had had Tim giggling a worrying amount. “Is this about Tim eating that worm?”

“Partially.”

Tim groaned and smacked his head on his desk, impact cushioned by an ever-growing stack of statements about clowns. “C’mon guys, that was two weeks ago!”

“You had to go to the _hospital,_ Tim,” Jon reminded him. Jon certainly didn't need reminding; he had been the one to take Tim. Jon had walked into the breakroom and sighed that there was nothing there to eat (Martin had been bullying him into taking breaks and eating lunch recently). Tim had disagreed and pulled out the Tupperware container of worms that still called the minifridge its home. Before Jon could stop him, Tim had pulled a ketchup packet from a little bowl by the microwave, dropped the worm inside, and slurped up the combination like a tube of go-gurt. Tim had smacked his lips, placed the packet on the counter, and casually informed Jon that he needed to go to the hospital now, thank you. 

It had been a very strange car ride. It had been an even stranger A&E visit, and worst of all in Jon's eyes was that the nurse had handed Jon the clipboard for his information, and with a sigh and a _back again are we, Mr. Sims?_

Tim threw up his hands defensively. “Because the ketchup had expired before any of us even worked here, not because the worms were particularly harmful.”

“They weren’t helpful either,” Jon pointed out, setting down his pen on his ever-shrinking legal pad.

“It’s not like I died or have a scar from it.” Tim gave Jon a pointed look he pretended not to see.

Sasha glared at Tim and put her hands on her hips. “Tim, if you didn’t want us to keep bringing up you eating a worm, _you shouldn’t have eaten a fucking worm.”_

“Didn’t you say you had other things to talk about in this meeting?” moaned an exasperated Tim.

“I did,” sighed Sasha. “We can yell at Tim for eating a worm later, though it is a great segue into my first point: I’m going to ask Elias for a new fridge for the breakroom.”

Martin shot a pointed look of his own at Tim, whom he hadn’t forgiven for getting himself sent to the A&E. “Because of the worm thing?”

“Yeah well, I’d also really like to be able to bring apples in for lunch again without having to check for teeth. We can’t keep using our one compartment minifridge as a biohazard containment unit.”

A smile played on Tim’s lips. “Boss?”

“Yeah, Tim?” 

“Did you almost eat the bone apple?”

“I—that’s not the point,” stammered Sasha, avoiding Tim’s mirthful and excited eyes.

“We really need a new fridge,” Jon sighed. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Sasha took a deep breath, collecting herself. “Second, I found some leads. On Gertrude.”

Martin furrowed his brow. “Isn’t she dead?”

“No one ever found a body, but she’s presumed to be,” nodded Jon.

“Presumed,” Sasha agreed. “But nothing was ever proven.”

Tim winced and glanced at the door of Sasha’s office. “It was a _lot_ of blood though.” The Institute janitorial staff had been tied up for the whole day after the police had gotten what they’d needed from the crime scene. And they still found flecks of blood in the corners from time to time.

“But officially she’s still missing,” Sasha insisted, beginning to pace. “And if what I’ve found is to be believed, she was working on something big before she vanished.”

Jon leaned forward in his seat, eyes following Sasha. “So what, you think she got too close to something she wasn’t supposed and it killed her?”

“Maybe. Or maybe not, I don’t know.” Sasha paused in her pacing for a moment to look apologetically at Jon, like she had failed somehow by not being sure what happened to an old woman whose disappearance the cops couldn’t solve. “But I have receipts and travel expenses from her and maybe we can find something!”

“Where was she?”

“New Zealand. China. America.”

Jon bit his lip. “Those aren’t similar.”

“She was old,” Tim said, leaning into Martin, who ruffled his hair. “Maybe she was going on a weird holiday?”

That made sense to Jon, who admittedly had never met Gertrude, but if her Archives were any indication she was well past senile. But Sasha just shook her head. “From what I knew about her, Gertrude wasn’t the type. Look, I’m not sure what I’ll find, but it’ll be something, I’m sure of it.”

“So are you going?” Martin asked. “To New Zealand, China, and America?”

Sasha shrugged and worried her lip. “I’m not sure. Not now, not with Prentiss around, but I might at some point.”

It was quiet for a moment, long enough Jon’s case file and legal pad started calling out to him like a siren's song. His fingers twitched towards his pen, and he forced himself to look up at Sasha. “Did you have anything else?”

“I did!” Sasha looked up at him from the spot on the floor she’d been gazing distantly at. "I...I saw Michael again.”

Tim jerked up from Martin’s side and gaped at her. “What?”

“And you didn’t lead with that?” Martin cried. 

Sasha tried to wave them off. “I was only mildly stabbed, it’s alright!”

Martin stood up from Tim’s desk and looked at Sasha in that way he did, all angry and threateningly kind. The sort of look that told you that you had been dumb and now Maritn as going to make it better, and you and given up any say in that the moment you had decided to do whatever idiotic thing you had done. It was a look Jon was very familiar with, and he very much enjoyed it being directed at someone else for a change. _“Mildly?”_

“And it was only for the worm extraction, it’s alright,” Sasha urged, though she looked nervously at the aggressively caring look on Martin’s face. 

If you really could kill someone with kindness, Martin looked downright murderous. _“What?”_

“It’s alright, Martin, I’m fine now.” Sasha glanced at Jon for help, who just shrugged. He wished he’d brought popcorn. 

Tim suddenly appeared at Martin's side, equally incensed. “What the _fuck,_ Boss!”

“Did you at least go to the hospital?” asked Martin.

Sasha shook her head, looking almost ashamed. Almost. “It wasn’t hospital serious.”

“Even _Jon_ goes to the hospital,” Tim shouted, pointing rather rudely at Jon.

Jon glared at him, temporarily tearing his eyes away from the caregiver mode Martin. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means, Jon.” Jon did, in fact, know what Tim meant, but he still frowned petulantly at him all the same.

“Look, I’m trying to say there was another worm hive,” cried Sasha, conversation clearly not at all going the way that she had planned. “Like Prentiss.”

Martin’s expression would have been funny if he didn’t look so utterly horrified. _“And you didn’t lead with that?”_

 _“Was_ being the key word here,” Sasha clarified. She shook her head. “This meeting really got away from me,” she muttered to herself. 

Jon bit his cheek to keep himself from laughing. He was concerned, he really was. But it was _really_ nice not to be the target of the Archival team’s mother henning for a change. He forced himself to be professional, though in these Archives he wasn’t sure why he even bothered. “Are you going to elaborate on that at all?”

“I was trying to,” Sasha grumbled. “Look, it really wasn’t that serious. Michael came up to me at the end of the day Friday—”

Tim clenched his jaw so hard Jon was surprised that he didn’t crack a tooth. “You were stabbed on _Friday_ and you decided not to tell us until now?”

“I _did_ make a statement. Look, do you want me to finish or not?” The Assistants went obediently quiet. “Thank you. As I was saying, Michael came up to me at the end of the day Friday and I followed him to a graveyard—”

“Like in _Buffy?_ ” cried Tim, almost literally. “Sasha, like they mock in _Buffy?”_

“—and we killed another worm person!” Sasha said, plowing through. “He wasn’t as...strong, I guess, as Prentiss, but one of the worms did get me and Michael had to dig it out. But I’m fine now, and we have one less hive to worry about.”

“Did you learn the other hive’s name?” Jon asked.

“Yeah.” Sasha grimaced. “It was Timothy Hodge.” 

It showed the seriousness of the situation that Tim didn’t even mention that Timothy Hodge featured in the worm sex statement. Instead, he just wiped his hand over his face and blinked hard a couple times. “That’s—”

Martin shook his head. “Jesus, Sasha.”

Sasha fidgeted. “Yeah.”

“Are you alright now at least?”

“Of course. Like I said, I’m fine. It’s not that big a deal.” Even she didn’t sound convinced at that time. “Really, I was mostly bringing it up to apologize.”

“For following the monster that stabbed Jon and tried to eat Martin into a graveyard without telling us and then getting wormed and not telling us?” demanded Tim.

“No, to Jon and Martin.” Sasha shifted on her feet again. “For not taking them seriously. I was wrong. If getting wormed and seeing Hodge has taught me anything it’s that I definitely haven’t been taking this seriously enough.” The edges of Sasha’s eyes glimmered like diamonds behind her glasses.

Jon didn’t do well with tears, his own, or anyone else's. “It’s alright, really—” he said hastily, but Sasha cut him off.

“No, it’s not. I was more afraid at the moment I saw Hodge than I’ve been in my entire life. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you two. And I just dismissed you! Like it was nothing! I’m sorry. I’m so—”

Sasha froze mid-sentence. Tim knit his eyebrows together. “Sasha?”

“Hold on, there’s a—Jon look away.”

Jon tensed up. “Is it a spider?”

“It won’t be for long.” Sasha strode into her office (though how she’d managed to see something as small as a spider through the windows off her office from across the Archives Jon wasn’t sure) and then there was a thump as Sasha smacked a wall, followed by a crash.

The three Assistants were in the office in an instant, Martin helping her to her feet where she had pitched forward into the massive hole she had apparently smacked into the wall. “Sasha!”

“I’m fine.” Sasha righted herself and brushed some of the dust off of her. “The wall isn’t though.”

“I’d say,” laughed Tim, the initial nervousness of their entrance to the office bleeding out through the sound. “You punched clean through it!”

Jon squinted quizzically at the wall, examining it. “Isn’t that an exterior wall?”

“It should be,” Sasha agreed, flicking a flimsy piece of wall that flew into the newly opened gap like a paper football. “It’s just plasterboard and—oh, God.” Sasha blanched.

Martin glanced nervously at the hole in the wall. “What?”

“Run.”

Tim tensed. “Sash?”

She turned to him, fear-filled eyes large, and made larger still by her glasses, every inch of terror and urgency magnified tenfold. “Run!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tim eating a worm thing came to me in the middle of the night, as in I couldn't sleep until I made a note of it at like 1 AM. Also if anyone was to draw a Wormageddon poster I would owe you my life.  
> Anyway, sorry for the time between chapters, I'd make an excuse by I honestly don't have one. But! I'm almost done with my first draft for the next chapter, so that should come out next week! I hope! Probably!  
> Also do not fret, dear readers, because refuse to write a Prentiss encounter that's just a carbon copy of the canon one. I read far too much fic that does that to fall into that pitfall, tempting though it may be. So be prepared!
> 
> Next Week (really setting myself up for failure here, but I whatever): Martin is forced to take a compliment or two, Sasha wins a bet, Tim's legs are as shapely as ever, and Jon reconnects with some old friends


	11. Entrances and Exits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room was filled with labored, panicked breathing as the Archival staff tried to recollect themselves.   
> Worms.   
> So many goddamn worms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Listening: _Can’t Take My Eyes off of You_ by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons  
> For: That One Scene from _Community_ ( Episode: _Epidemiology)_ Where They’re Fleeing/Fighting Zombies While _Dancing Queen_ Plays Vibes
> 
> CW//
> 
> Canon-typical worms  
> Worm extraction  
> Minor descriptions of Corruption-typical horror  
> Spiral-typical mind fuckery

The moment that the door was locked and barred and barricaded and Jane Prentiss was firmly on the other side of it, Jon could breathe again. He—they, all of them, were safe. Probably. As safe as they could be. The door to Document Storage was thick and heavy and solid, and it meant that Prentiss almost certainly wouldn't be getting through it, but if one of them had been bitten and burrowed into them then they were dead already.

The room was filled with labored, panicked breathing as the Archival staff tried to recollect themselves. 

Worms. 

So many goddamn worms. Jon had thought that the tidal wave from Boothby Road was all that there could have been, maybe a few more here and there but nothing like _this_. 

Jon glanced out of the window, also thick and probably inexplicably bulletproof (Elias had always cared more for his precious documents than his staff). It was dirty, though whether that was from years of neglect from the custodial staff of just the natural filth that Prentiss seemed to carry with her he couldn’t say. Through the grime, Jon could see Prentiss, all holes and muck and matted black hair threatening to slough off her rotting scalp. Jon tore his eyes away from her, feeling nauseous. He was very glad they had gotten away.

Or at least, he was fairly certain they had.

A sudden wave of panic hit him. Maybe they hadn’t, not really. The thought had crossed his mind before but now he let it fester into a real concern. What if she had gotten them? Bitten them, started making one of them, one of his co-workers, his _friends_ into something like her, a shambling mass of putrefying flesh and ever-wriggling insects. Terror gripped him like it hadn’t since the basement as images raced through his head, images of Tim missing half his face, Sasha peeling back her lips and only worms coming out, Martin, his Martin, tugging off his sweater to reveal not his undershirt but skin like coral, pockmarked and eroded. 

He was having trouble breathing again, though that was hardly his fault.

Martin set a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Are you alright? Did they get you?”

“No, I’m alright, I’m—I’m fine.” Jon swallowed and forced himself to make those words true. He rested a hand of his own on top of Martin’s. “You?”

“Fine, but—”

“As adorable as this scene is,” interrupted Tim, who was slumped against the wall as limply as a coat on a rack. “They did get _me_ and I would like to be de-wormed ASAP.”

Sasha, who had been staring transfixed and wan at Prentiss out the window, whipped her head over to Tim and lowered him onto a box of statements. “Oh God, Tim!”

Tim waved her off, sinking lower onto the box, which was holding his weight remarkably well. “It’s fine, but if we could just get them out?”

Jon reluctantly removed his hand and looked up at Martin. “Do you have your corkscrew?”

Martin withdrew his hand as well. “Always. Someone might want to hold him? It’s sort of...well it’s not pleasant.” Jon and Sasha shifted a few boxes into a makeshift bed and clutched his hands tightly. Martin fished the corkscrew from his pocket and fidgeted with it, looking nervously at Tim. “Ready?”

“Yes, yes, go on and get it—Jesus _fucking_ Christ!” Tim clutched Jon’s hand so tightly that he would have sworn his bones were snapping. Martin pulled his corkscrew out of Tim’s leg and then a silvery worm, still wriggling and clearly not very happy to be out of the now steadily swearing Tim. Martin dropped the worm to the ground and promptly crushed it. Jon wished they didn’t make that wretched popping noise, or would if he could do anything other than feel his throbbing hand and ringing ears.

Martin gave Tim a customer-service polite look. “Maybe get him something to bite down on?”

“I’m not going to bite off my own tongue, Martin,” snapped Tim.

“Yes, but you are very loud, and this room isn’t very big.”

“Fine. I’ll try to keep it down.” He temporarily released Sasha’s hand to point warningly at Martin. “Don’t gag me.”

“It’s not a—”

“Yes, it is,” snapped Tim, squeezing his eyes shut in preparation. “Get it over with. Go on, there are at least two more in my ankle and heel that I felt.” Martin let out a sigh and fished the other worms out of Tim, who to his credit was substantially quieter, something Jon’s ears thanked him for.

Tossing and stamping another worm, Martin dropped his corkscrew from the death-grip he’d been holding it in and flexed his fingers. “That should be the last of them.”

“That I felt,” corrected Tim. “Can you check for more?”

On the one hand, it was a very Tim thing to do, and Jon really should have been prepared for it. On the other, one doesn’t usually have to expect their co-worker yanking off their shirt and demanding you stare at their...frankly impressively chiseled physique.

“Tim!” Jon hastily averted his eyes and tried to ignore how warm it suddenly felt in the room.

“What are you doing?” demanded Martin in a very high voice, red as a beet and trying very hard to hide his face from a cackling Sasha.

Tim looked unamused. “Look, I’m not going to let there be another flesh hive named Tim because you all refused to check my man tits for worms. Except for Sasha. Sash, you’re a true friend.”

“Isn’t this workplace harassment?” Martin moaned from behind his hands.

“It’ll be workplace harassment when my worm-filled corpse comes knocking down your door because you lot couldn’t put your pride aside and ogle me!”

“Fine.” Face uncomfortably hot, Jon forced himself to check Tim’s...man tits for worms.

Finally, Sasha made a noise of contentment and patted Tim’s shoulder. “I think you’re clean, Stoker, put your rack away before Jon and Martin combust.” 

Tim tugged his shirt back on and glanced around. “What do we do now?”

“I assume just stay put,” said Jon, face once against a normal temperature. “We should be safe in here.”

Tim frowned. “Where is here exactly? I don’t think I’ve ever been back here before.”

“Document Storage.”

“You’ve never been back here?” Sasha asked, mildly horrified. “Really?”

“Look,” started Tim, holding his hands up defensively, “there are a lot of rooms in the Archives—”

“This is why _Jon_ is my favorite.”

Tim looked almost properly wounded at that, save for his open-mouthed gape and the hand he’d thrown dramatically over his heart as if to shield it from Sasha and her cruel, cruel words. “Hey! Not all of us can move into the Archives.”

“It would seem we all are for the time being,” snapped Jon, feeling only slightly smug about the whole Sasha’s favorite thing. “There’s only one door and I very much doubt Prentiss will just let us waltz out of here untouched.”

“Can’t she just send worms through the door?”

“It’s sealed. Climate controlled, actually. This is probably the safest place in the Archives.” Jon tried to not think about how hard it would be for a rescue team to fetch their corpses if they all ended up dying.

“And if she does manage to get through?”

“Martin, how many extinguishers are in here?” Jon asked. “Other than the one I found, I mean.”

“Three that I hid.” Martin wouldn’t meet any of their eyes. “Plus the one Sasha had installed.”

Sasha furrowed her brow, confused. “You hid gas in here?”

Hints of pink played at Martin’s ears. “All around the Archives, really.”

“Why?”

Something fierce and defensive flared suddenly in Jon. “Does it matter? It may save our lives.” Martin gave him a small thankful smile.

Tim picked at the lid of one of the statement boxes, a growing pile of cardboard accumulated at his feet. “So what, do we just sit here and wait for Prentiss to kill us or for dehydration to take us?”

“Unless you see another way out.”

There was the screech of a door opening, and for one terrifying moment Jon thought that Prentiss had managed to open the door. He couldn’t tell if the reality was better or not. 

Michael, tall, unknowable, neon, and smiling like he had been given the greatest present anyone could have ever wished for, stepped into the room. “I might be of some assistance.”

The Archival staff leaped into action, Jon firmly planted himself in front of Martin like Martin wasn’t wider and taller than him by a large margin. Martin rested one hand on Jon’s shoulder supportively and curled the other his corkscrew, which glinted dangerously in the light. Tim and Sasha both put a protective hand in front of the other’s chest, and all four of them glared at Michael with such a ferocity that a lesser monster would have keeled over from the sheer blunt force of it.

Jon was the first to speak.

“What do you want?” he spat, hands curling into fists. He hoped he looked ferocious enough that it wasn’t clear he’d never thrown a punch before. He knew he didn’t.

Michael pursed his lips, unimpressed. “Touchy, are we? I’m here to help, Beholdling. You all seem to be in a bit of a situation.”

“What do you want from us?” asked Sasha, voice level but with an edge in it that was either fear or determination. Probably both.

“I want to be friends, Archivist.” Michael smiled at her, teeth like a shark’s and lips pulling and cracking and dripping blood that did not fall. “Your predecessor and I were not on good terms. I’d like us to be different.”

Tim looked positively murderous. “So what, are we just supposed to go through one of your doors and just walk out the other side fine?”

“Why yes, Beholdling! Is that so hard to believe?” 

“Last time one of us went through one of your doors you ate Martin.”

“And Helen Richardson,” added Jon, voice wavering ever so slightly. “You ate her too.”

“You traded her life for your Martin’s, Beholdling,” Michael reminded him, crossing his arms in a way that he should not have been able to with hands as large as his. “That was your choice and your choice alone.”

Jon ignored the pang of guilt building in his chest. “So you don’t deny it then?”

“Why would I?” Michael smiled wider. Jon wanted to break some of his teeth. “I’m your only way out.”

“We could blast our way out,” said Tim, sounding like he also wanted to break some of Michael’s too-white and too-numerous teeth. “There’s a lot of gas in here, we’d just need to set off the fire suppression system.”

“Do you really think you would survive that?” Michael laughed and Jon felt green. “All of you? With one of you little watchers hurt? No. We all know that what you need is another door, one that I am more than happy to provide.” The door, yellow and inviting, opened a little more, hinges squealing like a messily butchered pig.

“Alright.” If not for Sasha’s determined expression and the step forward she’d just taken, Jon wouldn’t have believed she’d been the one who’d spoken.

A look crossed Tim’s face that was somewhere between fear and uncontrollable rage. “What?”

“He’s right, and you know it.”

“If Tim can’t make it through the worms out there I very much doubt that he’ll be able to make it through the maze in there,” noted Jon. He wasn’t sure any of them would be able to make it though, injured or not.

There was clearly more rage in Tim’s face than fear. “Hey!”

“He’s right, Tim.” Martin swallowed and fidgeted with his hands. “It’s...it’s not easy in there.”

“So what, am I supposed to sit here looking pretty waiting for worms to get me while you all get yourselves killed?” roared Tim, trying to stand and failing.

Sasha shook her head. “No. We just need to get to the fire suppression system. That much gas should kill her and we should be able to get you out.”

“You three aren’t just going to leave me here—”

“It’ll just be me and Sasha going,” Jon interrupted.

 _“What?”_ cried Martin, incensed. 

“Tim needs someone to look out for him if worst comes to worst,” Jon explained. He bit his lip. “And...and I can’t let you go in there again.”

Martin looked thoroughly unimpressed. “I’m an _adult_ , Jon, I don’t need your _permission_.”

“Please.” Jon hated the way his voice broke. “I barely got you out last time. I need you to stay safe.”

“What about what _I_ need, Jon?” demanded Martin. “I know what it’s like in there, I can’t just let you wander in there alone!”

“I won’t be alone. Martin, I—”

“I don’t have all day, Beholdlings.” Michael impatiently rapped his fingers against the wall, leaving deep lesions in the stone with long, sharp bone. “Time is strange in my corridors. It’s best not to waste any on drawn-out goodbyes.”

Martin chewed his lip and crossed his arms, resolute. “This isn’t goodbye.”

“No.”

“You’re coming back.” He glared at Sasha. “Both of you.”

Jon smiled, only slightly, and squeezed Martin’s forearm. “We will. I promise.”

Martin seemed to accept that and handed Jon two fire extinguishers, and then two more to Sasha. “I’m going to be so pissed off if you two die.”

“If they die,” added Tim, glaring daggers at Michael, “I’m going to kick your ass, you creaky hinged piece of shit.”

Michael regarded him dismissively. “Terrifying.” He turned to Jon and Sasha. “Are we ready to go now?”

Jon looked at Sasha for confirmation, and she looked back and nodded at Michael. “Let’s go.” 

Michael smiled again, all teeth and gums and spiraling eyes full of mirth, and the door slammed behind them.

* * *

How long had they been walking?

It couldn’t have been forever, even if it felt like it. So how long had it been? Only a few moments, then. If it hadn’t been forever (and it couldn’t have been, because Jon remembered a place outside these hallways), then it must have barely been a moment, barely a single second in these God-forsaken halls. 

But that didn’t make sense. Jon’s feet ached, ached like he had spent every moment of his life wandering. And when he looked at the wallpaper, garish and ever-changing in color like someone was spinning a color wheel until it blurred, he knew he had never seen anything other than the wallpaper. When Jon looked at his arms, he was surprised it too was not made of too-bright colors and pulp. 

His memories hurt. They seemed wrong, foreign, like they didn’t fit. Why could he remember things outside of carpets and rugs and mounted lights and pictures of the same hallway again and again and again? That implied that he had not been here forever, but Jon knew they had been.

There it was. _They_. He was with Sasha, who was the Archivist, and who should not be in this place of unknown and walking and headaches. He wasn’t sure why, because he knew her to be this place’s antithesis. Or maybe this place was hers. 

Was it his? His antithesis, his opposite, his undoing? He certainly didn’t like it here, but he supposed that no one did but the thing that was it. Jon...hurt to be here. This was wrong, this place, their presence in it, their desperate need to know the way out, to know anything about it, to know how long they had been walking.

How long _had_ they been walking?

“We’ve passed that picture before.” Sasha’s voice was hoarse and raspy unless that was how she always sounded and then her voice was the same as it has always been.

“It’s all the same picture, Sasha.” The same picture over and over again, always hallways and corridors and always the _same_ hallways and corridors. It was forever, the pathways. Forever like how long they had been walking.

Sasha just waved him off and stared deeply into the painting. “No, no, I know that. But we’ve passed that picture before.”

“What?” Jon didn’t understand. He understood so few things about this place.

“I’m not sure how, but I Know we have.” Was that static? Why did Jon hear static? There were no tape recorders or speakers around, or at least he didn’t think there were. Maybe that was just another thing about the maze. 

Jon looked at the painting. It was the hallways, and if Jon tore his eyes away he would see exactly what he saw there, painting in hundreds of tiny brushstrokes, so small that they almost weren’t there. And it was utterly ordinary. The painting to his left showed the same thing, as did the portrait on his right, and the one behind him. “It looks exactly like every other picture in here.”

“Yeah. But we’ve passed it before.” Sasha kept on staring, eyes tracing the lines of the brushstrokes and the growing dark of the paint as it went further and further into the background.

Jon tugged gently at her arm. “We really need to get out of here.”

They kept walking. Not forever, never forever, nothing is forever, not even the hallways but they are as close to forever as Jon wanted to get. They pass the picture a few more times, the one Sasha stopped at before. It still looked the same as all the rest to Jon, but he stopped questioning her the fourth go around. It wasn't worth it.

They keep walking and wondering and making their way along. When did they run into the woman? Had she always been there? No, she hadn’t, because in all the eternity and mere moments that Jon and Sasha had been walking she had not been there, of that Jon was certain. And yet there she was, planted in front of a picture of hallways.

But the woman was...wrong. She wasn’t tall, not like Sasha though they were about the same height. The woman was _long_ , long like she’d been stretched and pulled like salt-water taffy. Her hair was an infinitude of tight, spiraling coils black and colorful as an oil slick, her lips tight and moving slightly as she muttered to herself. Her eyes were not eyes, not really. They were spirals, clutches of color and light, though one of them was not yet completely overtaken by it, relegated to just her pupil. She looked unfinished. Like she was being digested.

And her hands. 

Christ, her _hands_. They were like Michael’s, overlarge and bulbous, and half the size of her body. She was holding something, Jon realized, and it was when he realized what she was holding that he finally recognized her.

She was holding a map.

Jon gaped at her. “Helen?”

Helen looked up from the map and furrowed her brow in concentration. A spark of recognition lit up in her new eyes. “Jon? From the Magnus Institute?”

Relief washed over him. Or at least, mostly relief. “Yes, I—how are you still alive?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not even sure if I am.” She didn’t look sad at that, face still calm and neutral and slightly confused. “I’m fairly certain that my hands weren’t this big before. Why are you here? Oh, both of you. You’re the Archivist, right?”

Sasha balked slightly under Helen’s sudden gaze. “Yeah. We’re looking for our way out. Our friends need us.”

“I have a map if that helps.” Helen held it out a little towards them, hands still tight around its edges.

“Has it helped you?”

“I think so. It doesn't make sense, but I think it does help. This place doesn’t make much sense either.” Helen looked back down at her map, muttering nonsense to herself. She seemed to have forgotten that Jon and Sasha were there, attention entirely on the map in her hands.

“Are you alright, Helen?” asked Jon, voice soft.

“I don’t know,” said Helen, equally soft. “I’m lost. I shouldn’t be, I have a map right here, but I’m afraid I’m not sure where I am on it.”

Jon and Sasha exchanged a look. “Maybe we can help?” Sasha offered, sounding unsure.

“Yes, yes that would be lovely.” Helen offered the map out to them. The paper was wrinkled, torn, and ratty from being held in knifelike hands. It was also blank. Helen smiled up at them. “So?”

Sasha bit her lip. “Do you want to come with us, Helen? We should be able to leave soon.”

“I hope,” muttered Jon. Sasha shot him a glare.

“I don’t know if I _can_ leave.” Helen let out a laugh at that, the sound wrong and distorted like it was under too many layers of autotune and was playing in a cavern. “Not anymore. I don’t know if I want to. It’s hard to know things here. I think...that way.”

Jon blinked. “What?”

“For you,” Helen explained patiently. “Your way out. That way.”

“Are you sure?” 

“You’ll recognize the exit when you see it, I think.” Helen paused and pursed her lips. “Or at least, you will, Archivist. Good luck.” And with that, Helen’s head lowered and she went back to looking at her map.

Sasha just looked confused by the whole interaction. She looked at Jon questioning. “Jon?”

He just shrugged. “It can’t hurt.” And then they were walking again. Walking again and again until Sasha just stopped. “What is it?”

She stared deeply into a painting, transfixed. “We’ve passed the picture before.”

“You’ve said,” sighed Jon, quite tired of this game. And the hallways. And in general. It had been a very long however long it had been.

“No, but only I can tell,” Sasha said. “Remember what Helen said? That I would know the exit when I see it?”

“It’s not a door, though.” It was a hallway. Everything was a hallway here.

“We can try to move it.” 

Jon decided it was better not to argue, Wordlessly, he dropped his fire extinguishers onto the carpet and grabbed a corner. Jon felt the painting was too big. Almost comically so, or in hindsight rather tellingly so. Because when Jon and Sasha picked up the painting _gracefully_ and _tactfully_ and _gently_ set it to the side there was a door.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Sasha picked up her fire extinguishers from the ground and Jon followed suit. “Ready?” 

“As ready as I can be,” sighed Jon. 

The door creaked open and then shut firmly behind them.

* * *

Jon blinked, and then suddenly he was in a dark hallway. A dark _Institute_ hallway. He never would have thought the dated and moldering Institute hallways and portraits of long-dead white men who would have rather burned this place to the ground than see him and Sasha gawking up at their pictures would have been a relief, but Michael’s corridors were enough to make him appreciate even his own flat’s dirty and eroding concrete. 

Sasha tucked one of her extinguishers under her arm and pulled the nearest fire alarm. The ungodly noise that tore through the Institute made Jon wonder if Elias had chosen the sound based on its ability to drive an employee to madness. He wouldn’t put it past him.

“Why is there no gas?” asked Sasha after a few minutes of ear-splitting scratches and very clearly no activation of the fire suppression system.

Jon shifted his hold on his fire extinguishers. “Well, there’s not exactly a fire.”

“Damn,” Sasha said with the intonation of someone who felt like a stronger word was more applicable but not appropriate. “That means we’ll need to go to the maintenance room.”

“That’s a floor above the Archives,” pointed Jon.

Sasha let out a sigh. “We’ll have to be ready for anything then. Do you still have your fire extinguishers?”

Jon raised an eyebrow at her. “I never let them go.”

“Alright. To the stairs then.” 

Jon and Sasha descended a floor, dodging fleeing Institute staff that didn’t even bother to shoot them a questioning look. Jon was almost too anxious to be winded as they ran, but he was nonetheless as they stopped in front of the maintenance room. 

The maintenance room had no right to be as creepy as it was. It was dark, a few flickering overheads providing all the room’s lights and casting dark shadows across the walls and floor. It was like the Archives, really, all dusty shelves and misfiled components, except instead of paper the maintenance room was filled with a million different possible murder weapons. Maybe that’s what had happened to Gertrude Robinson, Jon thought idly as he passed a paint can filled with a deep brown sludge. She’s pissed off a maintenance worker and they’d taken her down here.

Boxes of parts, dissimilar and oddly shaped, leered out at Jon and he and Sasha passed them, looking wickedly sharp and for all the world like they’d like nothing better than to cut them into ribbons. Jon didn't let himself linger on anything, he simply kept walking, eyes darting around in search of the manual activation of the fire suppression system.

They were passing a malformed coil of wire when Jon froze.

Sasha gave him a look. “What is it?”

“Music,” he whispered. “I can hear singing.”

Sasha blanched. “Like—”

“I’m fairly sure it’s her.” Jon certainly knew the sound of Prentiss’ song. He dreamed of it far too often to ever forget it. Sasha readied an extinguisher, and Jon followed suit, getting them into as much of a battle position as they could. “Can you hear it?”

“Yeah, if I really listen.” Sasha paused, head tilted slightly to the side and brow furrowed in concentration. “Huh, that’s weird.”

“What is?” asked Jon, trying to keep his panic under control. It would do nothing but slow them down, and he needed to be prepared. (He hated the waiting. All the other things that had tried to kill him had at least had the decency to do it quickly with little to no build.)

“Well I mean, it sort of sounds like she’s singing—”

But she didn't need to finish. Jon could hear it too now, she was certainly close enough at this point. The sound of thousands of writing worms pulsating and palpitating to the beat of all too familiar horns. The noise drowned out the tail end of Sasha’s reply, but Jon recognized the song all the same.

He’d sung it to Prentiss, after all.

The sound of worms and song and the furious beating of his own stupid heart was nearly deafening, but his sigh was loud enough to cut through it all. “Oh fuck off.” 

And then they were sprinting, the manual activation leaver dramatic and calling to them like a beacon from far too far away. Jon and Sasha surged forwards, followed closely by the gas they trailed like cans from a newly wed’s car, then the worms choking on lungfuls of CO2 but still coming, and then Prentiss herself, smile wide and wretched, screaming out her horrid song, voice like the feeling of touching rot.

“I love you baby!”

“Shit!” There was the sound of clattering metal-on-concrete as Sasha dropped the extinguisher under her arm. The red of the metal was quickly covered in squirming white as the worms overtook it in a matter of moments.

“And if it’s quite alright! I need you baby—”

Sasha looked over to him, stricken, the nozzle of the extinguisher hands hanging limply, no gas pouring from it. “Jon, I’m out!”

Jon handed her his spare, barely looking at her, eyes only on their ever-approaching pursuers. “Here!”

“—To warm the lonely nights! I love you baby, trust in me when I say—”

“Fuck!” Sasha fell. It wasn’t her fault, not really, the ground was a mind field of loose parts to machines Jon had never even seen before, and it was all Jon could do not to tumble to the ground himself. 

“Sasha!” Jon dashed back a pace, trying to pull her up. 

“Oh, pretty baby—”

Sasha waved Jon off. “I’m fine, just go!”

The worms were on them in a matter of moments. They burrowed into Sasha’s legs almost as soon as she hit the ground and no matter how fast Jon tried to drag her there were always more, and there was so much skin on her legs to fill. “I’m not leaving you to them!”

“—don’t bring me down I pray—”

Jon’s arms hurt. No, they screamed at Sasha’s weight. He wasn’t a strong man, not by a mile, but he just kept pulling Sasha along. His arm had hurt before, and they would hurt again. He’d be fine. But Sasha wouldn’t if he let her go. “You idiot, they’ll just overtake us both!”

No, Jon wasn’t a strong man, he was a stubborn one. The most stubborn person he knew save for Martin. And he wasn’t going to leave anyone behind. “I don’t care, I’m not going to let you die!”

“—Now that I’ve found you, stay—”

Why was Sasha so tall? It was inconvenient for dragging her across the maintenance room floor, no matter how hard Jon was trying. And Prentiss was getting closer. She was almost on them not, all songs and smiles and worms and if Jon cold just go a little farther then—

There was a creak, long and loud, and Jon turned his head for a moment from Prentiss and her brood to see an open yellow door. Framed in the doorway, looking like a happy ending, stood Martin clutching two cans of gas and Tim, who grinned and let loose.

“—And let me love you, baby—”

Martin moved to the release a lot faster than Jon, though he’d always been the muscle of the group. Any worm that even looked their way was met with a thick cloud of CO2 until the ground around them was coated in a white, opaque coating of the stuff.

“—let me love you.”

They reached the manual release in a matter of moments, with time to spare for Tim to give Prentiss a withering look. 

The effect is marred, ever so slight, by a twinkle of smugness in his eyes and he wrapped his fingers around the lever for the manual release and spit out, “Oh, shut up.” 

The room is filled with gas, and everything went black.

Again.

* * *

The worst part of all of it, Jon thought sullenly in the little base of operation the ECDC had set up, wasn’t the worms or watching his friend get slowly eaten alive or the serenade or the brain trauma or anything like that. No, the worst thing about this whole mess was that Tim was _completely fucking correct_ about how good a zombie movie protagonist he would be.

It was unfair, really.

First the worms, now this crushing realization. What had Tim said? All he needed was a strategically ripped shirt and a sufficiently cool weapon? Maybe a fire extinguisher would be his weapon of choice. They were certainly heavy enough, and their gas could choke just about anything if positioned right. Martin’s weapon would be his corkscrew. Jon had seen how Martin had wielded it and knew for a fact it was a deadly weapon in his hands. For Sasha, maybe a cricket bat. She had pictures on her desk of her and some equally terrifying women playing the sport and from the size of her arms, Jon figured she could use it to terrifying effect.

Jon’s would be his axe. Not the one from Ambrose’s, but _his_ axe, the one he’d bought after the Artifact Storage ordeal and then had slipped under his couch for ease of use. It was smaller than Ambrose’s, but it was sturdy and Jon figured that he could make a few heads roll with it if need be.

Jon rubbed his eyes tiredly, displacing his hellishly smudged glasses. He hated that he was thinking about this. He hated that Tim was right. He hated that after all of this he’d go back to the break room and give that Wormageddon poster another look.

Martin shook him from his musings. “What are you brooding about?” 

“Hm?” Jon blinked up at him and fought a blush. “Oh, nothing important.”

Martin sat down next to him and gave him a wry smile. “Disappointed you’re not visiting the hospital this time?”

“I was just starting to learn all the student nurse’s names,” agreed Jon gravely. “Deloras will be inconsolable. Apparently, I’m her favorite patient.”

“Well, you are quite the charmer.” Martin gave him a winning smile and Jon just rolled his eyes. They were quiet for a beat, and then Martin spoke again, quieter and with far less levity. “I’m glad you made it back.”

“As am I.” Jon looked up at him, hand hoving awkwardly at his side, debating taking Martin's hand in his. “Thank you for that. I...I don’t think that I would have survived that if you hadn’t arrived.”

Martin shook his head. “It was mostly Tim. I was more his horse than his...I don’t know, co-conspirator?”

“He wouldn’t have made it to us on his own in time,” pointed Jon, frowning. He hated when Martin did this when he pretended no part of him was worth praise. It was annoying and untrue, and by God, he was going to make Martin see that.

“He wasn’t that hurt, he probably could have—”

“Martin, take the compliment.”

“Alright.”

Tim and Sasha hobbled over, helping each other around like they were competing in a three-legged race where the object was to go as slowly as possible. All but draping himself over an aggressively sterile chair, Tim shot them a grin. “Have you finished your tearful reunion yet?”

Jon leveled him with a glare, but there was no real heat to it. Martin just looked at him, confused. “No one cried, Tim.”

“Really? Damnit.” Tim handed Sasha some money, grumbling all the while. The way they had positioned themselves in a sort of half-slumped half-casually-lounged side lean against their chairs and each other made it difficult, but Jon wasn’t the one trying to exchange money; it was more amusing than anything else.

Jon watched them with a barely concealed smirk. “What are you two even betting on?”

“Anything and everything,” Tim declared, fanning his arms outside and almost smacking Sasha square in the face.

“Don’t worry, it’s not just you.” Sasha slipped the money into the breast pocket of her jacket, which had been safely recovered and decontaminated. “We’ve got a running bet about whether or not Rosie is just going to up and murder Elias one day.”

“It’s been going on for—how long’s it been now Sash?”

Sash scratched her chin and stared into the middle distance. “Four years now, I think. I really thought that the socks and china incident would push her over the edge.”

“To be fair, I think Elias thought so too. He gave her that whole month off.”

Jon leaned back and hummed thoughtfully. “Was that the month all four printers in Research broke and the Library was on strike?”

Tim nodded vigorously. “Mmhmm, that’s the one.”

“I think Artifact Storage tried to unionize,” added Martin.

Sasha’s expression curdled. “It would have worked too if Tristan hadn't been eaten by that teddy bear.”

“The one with the hat that’s in that huge box all the way in the corner?” asked Jon, racking his brain to remember the item in question. “I think someone wrote ‘enemy of the working class’ on that box.”

 _“Good_ ,” Sasha sniffed. There was a lull in the conversation.

Martin broke the silence. “Are you two alright?” He looked worriedly at Tim and Sasha in a way that made Jon’s heart ache.

“Well the bottom of my legs look like they’re made out of pumice stone, but whatever drugs they gave me are doing _wonders_.” Sasha raised a brow at the man next to her. “Tim?”

“My legs are still shapely as ever, boss, you don’t have to worry.” The group gave Tim an equally worried and annoyed look, and he sighed. “I’m fine. The ECDC people said you did a wonderful job, Martin.”

The corners of Martin's mouth twitched. “Did they really?”

“Yup!” said Tim, popping the p in the way he did specifically to antagonize Jon. “They asked how I’d gotten them out so cleanly. They called the corkscrew genius.”

Martin went all pink and flustered, utterly unable to look at Tim or the plastic walls the ECDC people had taped up. “Genius might be a bit much—” Jon elbowed him and gave him a look, which shut him up but made him blush even harder.

“So what are everyone’s plans after this?” asked Tim, stretching into Sasha’s side. “I’m going to take a nap for the next—” Tim paused to theatrically check his wrist like he was wearing a watch. “—forever.”

“That’s not a nap,” Jon said, “that’s a coma.”

“I think we all deserve a little coma after all that. You know, as a treat. And also a couple dozen pairs of knee-high socks.” Sasha gave her bandaged legs a withering look. “I’m going to have to change my entire aesthetic because of this.”

“It’s a coma for me and Sash, then. What about you two? Coma as well? Moving out, moving officially in?” Tim looked excitedly at Jon and Martin, but Jon just felt his heart sink.

“Oh. Right. I suppose there’s no reason for you to keep living with me,” said Jon, voice hollow. He didn’t want Martin to move out, not really, didn’t want to lose the way he smiled in the morning and laughed at night and watched stupid documentaries with him on Jon’s shitty old couch with only minimal grumbling. But it was like he said, words like lead and falling bitterly off his tongue; there was no reason for him to stay anymore.

“Right.” Martin’s voice sounded hollow too. “I guess not. I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow?” That was far too soon. If Jon’s heart had been sinking before it was plummeting now. It would be at his feet, before long.

“Yeah, I mean I don’t want to impose more than I already have—”

“You haven’t been an imposition,” Jon said quickly. 

“Still, I—I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow.” They both looked utterly miserable, and Tim looked like they’d hit him.

“Speaking of being out of people’s hair,” started Sasha, looking apologetically at a wounded-looking Tim. “I’m going to New Zealand.”

“What?” croaked Tim.

“Then China and America,” continued Sasha, tugging at her fingers. “I’m going to follow Gertrude’s trail, find out if she’s still alive or what she knew before she vanished.”

“Why now?”

“Well, Prentiss is gone and—”

“And she’ll be gone later too,” Tim insisted.

“Yeah but…” Sasha squeezed her eyes shut and stilled her hands. “But she came here for me, alright?”

Tim gaped at her. “What are you even talking about?”

Sasha bit her lip. “I’ve got a hunch.”

“You’re running away on a _hunch?”_

“I’m not running away,” snapped Sasha, shooting him a look. “And...and lately a lot of hunches I’ve had have been real. In Michael’s corridors for one, with the exit and the painting. And the spider in my office, I didn’t see it, but I Knew it was there.”

“So what, you just sort of know that that worm monster wanted to kill you specifically?” said Tim, unimpressed, despair making way for anger. “It tried to kill Jon and Martin first.”

“But it _did_ text Sasha the whole time and said we’d want to be there when her ‘crimson fate’ arrived,” Martin said, looking apologetic.

Tim ignored him. “So you’re running.”

“It’s not running, Tim! These things like Michael and Prentiss, they’re only attacking you all because of me!”

“Daisy—the werewolf, tried to kill us and she never even met you,” Jon pointed out.

But Sasha just shook her head. “She tried to kill you because of a case _I_ assigned you.”

“Not everything is about you!” roared Tim, properly angry now. “Have you considered that maybe you’re the thing keeping us safe?”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Sasha shouted back. Jon could feel Martin tense beside him and he looked very pointedly at Sasha, who just sighed. “Look, I’m going to New Zealand and that’s not up for debate. Jon, you’re acting Archivist while I’m gone.” 

Extracting herself from Tim, Sasha started to walk away. She nearly fell over, and Tim made a motion to help, but she just shook her head and pulled herself to her feet. No one spoke, too in their own heads to break the silence. And there was nothing more to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin: Self Care or else!  
> Jon: *pulls out an Uno reverse card*  
> Martin: Wait no  
> Anyway, guess who posted on-time motherfuckers!!! It's ya boy! Is the next chapter going to be as prompt? Probably not, but I'll try! This chapter and the next three all have the same working title, which is "Oh shit, of fuck, oh shit" but more emphasized as it goes. Good things are coming, my dears. Goooooood things. >:)c
> 
> Next Chapter: Jon realizes, Georgie knew, Melanie is unhelpful, Sasha

**Author's Note:**

> Alright baby my first real long-form fic! I'm terrified. This is terrifying. The chapter limit is approximate, but should be roughly where this bad boy ends? I've got four chapters ready to go, and then after that, you all are at the mercy of my motivation, but responses will probably force me to get off my ass and write, so feel free to bully me. This fic is betaed by the lovely rippleskip, available on Ao3 and tumblr. I'm on Twitter @defnotducks if any of you want to talk to me about stuff, I guess!


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